Too Early for Terror Plots
by hazelfeather17777
Summary: During Gilan's first assessment, Halt is called away on urgent business concerning the radical "Outsiders". Crowley sends Gilan and a fellow apprentice named Clarke to assist Halt in Hibernia. As Halt's investigation leads a bit more into his past than he anticipated, Crowley goes on a tangent mission to uncover the mole in the Ranger Corps. (Disclaimer: I own nothing)
1. The Gathering

"Halt!" Gilan looked down the obscure dirt road to see Crowley, the Ranger Commandant, materialize out of the shadows of a nearby oak. His hood thrown back, Crowley's ginger hair was the only thing that gave his position away. He was up on the drooping lower branches, which looked like they were about to snap under the commandant's weight.

Gilan pulled Blaze to a stop a good few feet away from the tree and called a cheerful greeting.

"Crowley! Haven't seen you in a while. How's the paperwork?"

Crowley, trying his best to discretely scan the area, made an altogether very un-commandant-like expression before replying "Gilan! I almost mistook you for Halt for a second... but then again, you're way too tall for the likes of him. I'm doing fine, just fine. The paperwork's still more than enough to fill up the moat that I heard Halt recently threw you in… but otherwise, I'm perfect, thank you for asking."

He noticed with a bit of a smirk that Gilan grimaced at the memory of the dirty Redmont moat water. Couldn't blame him there, any moat Halt deemed sufficient to throw deserving people into was a moat to be reckoned with in terms of filth. "Speaking of Halt," Crowley continued, "Come on out! I know you're out there in the bushes, old friend. Emphasis on _old_."

Gilan looked around and shrugged. "Halt said he going to be late running some errands for Baron Arald. He'll be here by tonight, I think."

Crowley nodded, seemingly satisfied with Gilan's response. But after a few minutes of awkward silence, he fully lowered his guard. Well, as much as a ranger lowers his guard.

"So, Gilan. Come for your apprentice assessment, eh? I heard Halt say you are quite a good shot with your bow. And your unseen movement can rival the best of the corps. Didn't expect that from David's son." Gilan blushed and held his head high. Higher, since he was craning his head a little to see Crowley. Halt's praises came few and far in between.

Just then, a black streak coming from just beside Gilan embedded itself into the branch Crowley was precariously perched on. Without further persuasion, the branch snapped, and gravity pulled Crowley down on his backside with a resounding thump.

Gilan was having difficulty containing his laughter, and Blaze was laughing the way only a horse can laugh, her head bobbing up and down. With a great effort, Gilan slid off Blaze, doubled over and clutching his stomach. As he helped Crowley up, Halt appeared out of nowhere, leading Abelard with one hand and the other replacing his bow across his shoulder.

Crowley glared at the senior ranger and the giddy apprentice. "Dammit! I knew that was going to happen! The Baron's errand, you say? Did that involve nearly killing me?"

Halt performed his signature eyebrow raise and replied "Gilan wasn't lying when he told you I was running an errand for Arald. He was going to send it to Castle Araluen, but I intervened. He wanted me to deliver this letter to you. Top secret."

Crowley grabbed the letter and embraced his old friend. Gilan stood awkwardly to the side.

"So you read it, didn't you." Crowley smiled.

Halt assumed an indigent expression. "A top secret letter from a high ranking baron to the highest ranking ranger? Even I wouldn't go that far."

Now Crowley raised his eyebrow, though it looked weird since his other eyebrow also followed it up.

Gilan intervened before the situation becomes a full blown eyebrow raising competition. "Umm Halt? Crowley? Why don't we finish this at the Gathering?"

"Yes, yes of course." Crowley replies absentmindedly inspecting the mystery letter. He let out a low whistle. Cropper trotted out of the bush behind the oak tree and nickered a hello to the other horses.

The three men - sorry, two short men and a really tall boy - rode to the other edge of the camp, where there was an empty space in the tent lines perfect for two. As Gilan unsaddled Blaze and secretly sneaked her a juicy apple, Halt gave Abelard a good brushing before setting up tents. Crowley had already disappeared into the Senior Ranger's pavilion.

"What time do you think it is, Gilan?" Halt quizzed Gilan as he piled firewood into the fire pit.

"Ummm… about two hours till sundown?" Gilan said, wincing as he realized his error too late.

Halt raised his eyebrow for the second time in the thirty minutes they have been here. "Is that a question or an answer?"

"Two hours before sundown, Halt."

"Hmm. Let's get dinner sorted out before we go practice for your assessment." Halt gestured to the archery range set up at an open area, where a few rangers were firing lightning quick shots mercilessly at battered targets.

Gilan sighed and remembered first few weeks of his apprenticeship. "We will" usually translates to "you will". He resignedly and started to find a pot for the stew, but was soon pleasantly surprised when he found Halt's pot simmering on a campfire.

After a quick but delicious rabbit stew, Gilan rubbed his stomach contently. He and Halt cleaned the pot in the nearby stream after they wiped up the remains of the stew with some bread Halt had stowed away in his pack somewhere.

"Halt?" Gilan tentatively asked the silent figure while they were nursing hot coffee (with lots of honey of course).

Halt grunted, which Gilan took it as a sign to continue. "Did you actually read the letter?"

There was no response for a few minutes. Then Halt shifted to a more comfortable position and signed "Gilan, Crowley is one of my closest friends. Contrary to what you may believe, I only snoop if I think I have a good reason to. I'm sure Crowley will tell us the contents of the letter if it pertains to us."

After downing two cups of coffee, Halt and Gilan strolled to the archery range, exchanging greetings with a few other rangers. It seems like a lot of them wanted to meet the famous Sir David's sword wielding ranger, apprenticed to the equally famous Halt. After pleasantries were finished, Gilan proceeded to the archery range, where other apprentices were also practicing. The older rangers previously shooting were all watching their performances. Gilan snorted inwardly at the other apprentices' results. He could easily beat all of them at archery.

Halt seems to have registered this fact too, because a cautionary hand landed on Gilan's shoulder. Gilan looked curiously at his mentor.

Shaking his head, Halt muttered, "It won't do you any good to show off your skills since you are already better than they are," Gilan grinned, "Practicing archery in front of them would be like rubbing it in their faces. Some might become jealous. You don't want any enemies here." The grin disappeared.

"Then what should I practice?" Gilan asked. Bad question.

"You should practice everything else that you are only slightly more than mediocre at, boy!" Halt snapped.

After an hour at a smaller range, Gilan practiced his knife work, throwing the two knives at random targets in random positions that Halt call out.

"Saxe knife! Sliding! Target five!" Halt instructed. Gilan did so instantly, executing the move perfectly from the start to finish. Except he only hit the outer edge of the bulls-eye. He retrieved his knife with a frown.

"Again! Target eight!" Whew. Bulls-eye this time.

"Again! Target two!" Bulls-eye again.

Gilan paused when he heard someone chuckling from where Halt stood. Crowley was leaned against a tree, grinning and shaking his head.

"Sometimes I wonder how you survived being Halt's apprentice for this long, Gilan. Housework, Housework, Housework, and then training till your arms drop off."

"Housework builds character, Crowley. You'll understand if you ever take an apprentice." Halt muttered. He turned to Gilan. "An ordinary archer, in this case knife thrower, practices until he gets it right…"

Gilan finished the modified phrase, "A ranger practices until he never gets it wrong. I know, Halt."

Halt blinked. Was he getting predictable and repetitive? But it only lasted a moment before he barks out "Throwing knife! Diving! Target twelve!"

After the last knives and arrows have been extracted from the pummeled targets, the rangers dispersed to their respective tents. Crowley followed Halt and Gilan to the tent lines, said goodnights (and a good luck for Gilan tomorrow), and reentered the Senior Ranger's pavilion. Halt had retired into his tent already, leaving Gilan alone by the dying fire to take care of his knives. Soon the Gathering Ground was quiet apart from the occasional nickering of one horse to another in the open clearing by the tents.

Gilan was stretched out on his bedroll, too excited to go to sleep even though every muscle was sore and tired (don't you just hate it when you're lying in bed and can't fall asleep, so you ponder on the meaning of life and everything else in the universe until your brain feels like it's about to explode?). Yeah, that's how he felt.

What was in the letter Halt gave Crowley? Why didn't Baron Arald just give it to Halt? Halt usually resolves any conflicts in and around Redmont, so this must be something very important, right?

Or… does it have something to do with Halt himself?

Before he could fully finish that train of thought, Gilan fell soundly asleep.

Of course he won't remember it in the morning.


	2. Assessments What Fun

Sunlight streamed into the opening of Gilan's tent flap. The apprentice squinted and burrowed deeper into his blanket. Wait. He was pretty sure he closed it tightly the night before… and then he noticed Crowley's cheerful face outside.

"Morning, Gil! Lovely day for your bronze oakleaf, isn't it?"

"Crowley, why are you..." Gilan tried to make his tongue work properly.

"Halt's outside with his third cup of coffee. Figured only you would be able to stop our coffee stores from getting emptied before the last day of the Gathering." Crowley paused," And maybe our honey stores as well." He glanced at Halt, sitting on a log by the fire and nursing a steaming cup.

Gilan snorted and replied, "Well, he certainly would skin anyone who tries to take his coffee away. I'm sorry, Crowley, but you asked the wrong person. I'll just go over there and get breakfast and _a few nice cups of coffee_."

Gilan slowly got up, groaning at stiff muscles and rubbing his eyes at the sun. He pulled on his trusty cloak and strapped his belt, knives, and sword on. After a good natured smack on Crowley's arm for the unceremonious wakeup call, he wandered to the campfire.

He heard Crowley complain, "Oi! I'm still your commandant here! Hmm… I could always order you to stop Halt…" before wandering away.

Bacon, eggs, and a cup of coffee put Gilan in a considerably happier mood. He gave a cheerful "Good morning!" to Halt and another ranger next to him and received a "Morning!" and a grunt in return. Your guess which ranger said what.

"Gilan, this is Ranger Bartell, of Seacliff Fief. Bartell, this is my apprentice, Gilan." Halt made introductions after the three people were all full and, of course, drinking coffee.

"So, Gilan, eh? You're both slightly taller and shorter than I thought you would be. Perhaps you'll encourage taller people to join the corps, but who would have thought old David's son would be, well, short?" Bartell smiled, indicating no insult in that comment.

Gilan found Bartell to be a pretty likable person. After a few more minutes of conversation, Bartell excused himself and hurried off to the Senior Ranger's pavilion, where Crowley was just coming out. The commandant's face was slightly pale, but he waved off Bartell's questions with a simple "It's nothing."

Halt, concerned, got up to see what the matter with his friend was. Crowley handed him the letter with its distinctive thick parchment.

The flourished handwriting of Baron Arald greeted Gilan's eyes as he looked over Halt;s shoulder. He only picked up a few words, such as _"...Ferris..."_, _"...terror plot..."_, _"...missing..."_, and in the last sentence, "_...ask Halt…"_

Of course he would see that last line.

Gilan realized he was subconsciously looking for Halt's name because of that thought he had last night. He gave himself a little cheer on the inside: he was right! Then the other few lines registered fully in his mind. Wait. King Ferris? _TERROR PLOT_?!

Crowley and Gilan simultaneously looked at Halt, who just calmly finished the letter and handed it back.

Crowley couldn't hold it in any longer. He exploded. "So? What do you think? Oh for… HE'S YOUR BROTHER! Surely you have at least a little bit of feeling for him? Or if not him for your country?"

Halt cut him off there. "My country is Araluen. Nowhere else." he said firmly. "And why would Arald send this to you? What has he and Redmont got to do with this?"

Crowley appeared rather uncomfortable as he produced another piece of paper. "Arald thinks the disappearances you investigated a few months ago was the work of Genovesans linked to Hibernia. He asked me to take a look as you and Gilan were preoccupied with the bandit problems, and because I was drowning in paperwork, well, I thought I'd give myself a short vacation. I did some investigating, and, Halt, I think that Outsiders cult we put down a few years back was not as completely exterminated as we thought. It seems like they had recruited Genovesans to kidnap three or four from each fief to become their converts.

"What does this have to do with King Ferris?" Gilan interrupted. "Who is King Ferris anyways?"

"King of Clonmel in Hibernia. Selfish, greedy, and too intent on keeping the throne to care for his people." Halt answered shortly.

"And also your brother, so I heard you say it." Crowley added, ignoring Halt's death glare. "Anyways, Arald just confirmed the Outsiders are going to try and take over Clonmel as a stepping stone to Araluen. Dromorth has already fallen to their grasps. I'm surprised we haven't heard anything of it yet."

"Have you notified King Duncan yet?" Gilan asked.

"Arald also sent a letter to Duncan a few weeks before he sent this to me. " Crowley verified.

"So… what do we do now?" Gilan looked at Halt, who seemed deep in thought.

"We have eradicate those blasted Outsiders. Permanently." He walked away, brow furrowed.

A few minutes later, Crowley followed him to the tent lines. "Halt…"

Halt was saddling Abelard for his journey to track down the Genovesans. He had already taken down his tent and packed food and his other belongings. He didn't respond to his friend, who stood awkwardly to the side.

"Are you sure this is the best idea? What about Gilan? He'll be here alone until you come back." Crowley knew his half-hearted attempt at persuading Halt to stay wouldn't get anywhere. It was near impossible to talk Halt out of anything once he has his mind set on it.

"Gilan won't need me for his assessment. He's fully capable of taking care of himself. Look," Halt sighed. "I don't want to leave him either, but you need to send someone who knows the country and fit in should the mission actually lead to Clonmel. Besides, he can stay with you if this takes longer than expected."

Crowley blinked. Halt has a point, as always. And he could really use some helping hands with -ugh- the paperwork.

"And I'll have an apprentice who I can order to do my housework, too" Crowley lamely attempted to make a joke.

The two men looked at Gilan, who was animatedly chatting up a storm with a group of newer rangers.

"So when do you think you'll tell him?"

Halt paused for a second. "When I leave, so he can't persuade me otherwise."

* * *

Gilan had noticed Halt and Crowley discussing the letter back by the tents, so he had decided to leave them alone and maybe find some information about his assessment. They'll fill him in on it once they get everything straight anyway. He met a group of rangers, including Merron, a nice fellow who had aced his final assessment last year. He assured Gilan that the test won't be hard, especially since Halt's his mentor.

"You're a first year, right? Just relax. The first year test is easy. Just the basics. I heard Crowley say that you're even better than him at concealed movement. Someone wise once told me that the more you worry you'll fail, the more likely you are going to. Besides, you can always practice. Assessments won't start till after lunch."

Good idea.

Gilan thanked them and proceeded to the archery range, where there was no one around. His favorite bow was strung and ready to go. Half an hour of practicing went by before Gilan heard some whispering behind him. He turned around to see a group of apprentices, standing in a tight-knit group, occasionally glancing at him before hurriedly looking away.

Gilan picked up the remainder of his arrows and left, searching for Bartell, Merron, or some of the other friendlier looking rangers. He was way taller than the other people present, which made it easy to pinpoint where his friends were. That's when he noticed Halt saddling Abelard while Crowley worriedly looked on.

Gilan jogged over. "Halt, Crowley, what's going on? Why are you leaving? What's with the extra food? Where are you going?"

"Why do you always ask multiple questions in a row? Why not one at a time?" Halt shot back.

That's when Gilan was sure there was something wrong; Halt had avoided the question. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could draw breath, Crowley interrupted.

"Umm… Halt? I think you just did it yourself."

Halt sighed exasperatedly. "I'm going to go have a look and see if I can stop the kidnappings. No, Gilan. Stay here. You won't need me for your assessment. Crowley will help you if there's anything wrong. If all goes well, I'll be back soon."

"But why can't someone else go? Why can't I go with you? It'll be extra experience for me and…"

"Halt's right, Gilan."

"But…"

"You need to finish your assessment." Halt said bluntly.

"How about you go after Halt after you prove yourself enough to get a bronze oakleaf?" Crowley proposed, receiving a scowl from Halt and a slightly hopeful look from Gilan.

"Fine." Halt conceded grudgingly. He then gave Abelard a little nudge and they were out of sight before Gilan knew it.

The ranger glanced back at the figure blending into the background. Gilan was still standing there, a sad and slightly betrayed look on his young face. Halt wouldn't admit it out loud, but the lanky and optimistic apprentice was almost like a son to him. He really didn't want to leave Gilan there… especially not with those other apprentices casting those dark looks at him behind his back…

_You've already warned Crowley about that, remember? Besides, Gilan will be fine. You worry too much._ Abelard assured Halt. Halt gave him a surprised but grateful look, and then horse and rider continued in companionable silence.

* * *

Crowley awkwardly patted Gilan on the back. "Yeah, it's way too early for a terror plots and such. But come on! Halt will be fine! You better train up so you might see him again sooner."

After lunch, Gilan and a few other first year apprentices lined up before Bartell, this year's main test giver.

"Alright, people! I am Ranger Bartell and this is Ranger Harrison." Bartell gestured to the stocky ranger, who gave a slight wave. "We are your assessors this year. Harrison will be overseeing archery and knife work, while I myself will do concealment and silent movement. Each of you are here because your mentors saw potential in you. This is your chance to prove them right."

Bartell chose Gilan, a nervous looking boy named Clarke, and a snobby looking boy named Jared as group one. Harrison had led the three remaining boys to the archery range.

Bartell looked at Gilan, Clarke, and Jared. "So, we're going to start with concealment. You three go in that forest and hide yourselves as well as you can. I'll give you a five minute head start. If I don't find you in three hours, consider yourself passed. If you are found or don't get back here in three and a half hours, you have not completed this task. If I find any of you causing trouble, both fail. No more than a quarter of a mile away from this spot, and the gathering grounds is off limits, is that clear? Good. Your time starts… now!"

Gilan plunged headfirst into the foliage, first sprinting about fifty meters till he reached the small stream. He laid tracks to nearby undergrowth and leapt into the stream, careful not to splash or snag his cloak on the nearby branches. _What would Halt do?_ He asked himself as he made his way diagonally across the stream. Oh well, it's a bit late for that. Bartell had probably set off already. Better hurry.

He laid down a second path, as if he had crossed the stream (which he had) and continued in that general direction (which he hadn't). He hopped back over, wary of the brambles and the soggy muddy bank.

Gilan then felt a strong tug behind him, as if someone had grabbed his belt and sword scabbard from behind! He panicked. How was he found in the first half hour? What would Halt say? How did Bartell get here so fast? He whirled around and smacked face-first into the drooping tree branch which imprisoned his sword sheath. Oh. Thank goodness there was no one around to see that.

Gilan laid down more tracks a little bit downstream. He was getting near to the quarter mile limit, so he stepped on to some slippery rocks to get to the other side. Suddenly his highly tuned senses picked a slight swish of clothing, a whoosh of a thrown object, and _splash_! Gilan was completely soaked in the freezing water.

The apprentice looked back quickly to see a throwing knife buried in the trunk of a tree behind him. He scrambled out of the stream and into the shelter of a nearby rock. Despite the overwhelming sense of panic he felt, he calmed his breathing enough to hear a muttered curse. The voice was familiar… Gilan removed his bow and cautiously scanned the area. At first, nothing. His highly trained eyes then picked out a small figure crouching in the bushes. Yep. It's definitely Jared.

An arrow streaked past his head the moment Gilan poked his head out of hiding, missing by a good five meters. Too close, yet seriously? What kind of archer misses at such a short distance?

"You missed me." He called out, "and you shouldn't have thrown the knife from that far away. That is, I'm assuming you threw it from farther away than from that tiny bush. You know it's nearly impossible to miss if you're that close to your target." _Whoosh-thud. _Another arrow. "Unless, you know, if you just started learning, I guess."

Jared didn't reply. Gilan heard a slight splash. Great. He must be coming over for a friendly visit.

Gilan risked another look. _Twang!_ This is getting ridiculous. "You're wasting your arrows." He snuck away from the rock into the convenient bracken nearby. Alright, have it your way. Let's play Hide 'N Seek while making it exponentially easier for Bartell to find us. Perfectly logical.

Gilan peeked out his head. He needed to figure out where the other apprentice had moved to. It's highly unlikely Jared had noticed him hiding in the bush, so maybe…

An arrow flew over his head.

Oh. Shoot.

* * *

Crowley walked out of the stuffy Senior Ranger's Pavilion and took a deep breath of fresh forest air. He looked around at the rangers, socializing and bringing each other up to speed on events in their fiefs. A few meters away, Berrigan had a cluster of Rangers sitting around the ever blazing fire, mesmerized by his songs and guitarra. Crowley stretched contentedly.

"Commandant Crowley! Here's another letter from Baron Arald!" One of the rangers called out.

Crowley sighed. He had decided that paperwork was the bane of his existence. Break's over. He really missed the days where he could just go take down a few bandits and have a form or two to fill out a month. But hey, ordering people around makes up for a little bit of extra paperwork. Only a little though.

_Crowley, I have received your letter about Halt's departure from the Gathering. Your suspicions seem correct. The Outsiders are back. He has located the Genovesans' trail to Clonmel. They had taken the missing people to an obscure Outsiders camp close to the capital of Clonmel. But one thing we didn't realize was that they weren't taken as new converts. Halt thinks the kidnapped, which happen to all be young girls, to infiltrate the castle as servants. The reason has yet to be determined._

Of course Halt gets to have all the fun. Crowley read on.

_Halt has tried to alert the castle guards without revealing his identity, but of course they thought he was insane. This Outsiders group is huge, Crowley. I know Halt won't admit it, so I'll say it for him; I believe he will need help because he may get recognized. I know he's _Halt, _but I do think sending someone, Gilan perhaps, is a good idea._

Crowley nodded. Yep. Way ahead of you this time.

_King Duncan has been notified of the situation in Hibernia, and he would like a diplomatic party there in about two weeks to help stabilize the country, but that is not safe with the Outsiders still in the area. He has asked me to tell you that he wants them gone by the time the diplomatic party arrives, which gives you a close deadline. This is another reason why I think you should send someone. Halt said he was moving around the fringes of Clonmel and getting a letter to him is near impossible. He did mention a few towns where he visited and took care of some Outsiders raids, so he is most likely somewhere in eastern Clonmel now._

_Clonmel is falling, Crowley, and King Duncan and I both believe action is required to help their people, not just let them sort themselves out._

_Signed, _

_Baron Arald_

Crowley put the short letter down and extracted the small list of towns. Well, this should be fun.

* * *

Gilan backed away quickly as a second arrow nicked him on the arm. Ouch. Okay, so Plan Sneak-away failed.

Plan 2. Fight.

And then Plan Sneak-away as soon as possible.

Gilan drew his throwing knife out. He was in no position to shoot, as he was still cramped in the bush, so his best shot is to hit Jared's arm with the knife (killing someone at his first Gathering is not something he wanted on his record). Now Gilan was thankful for Halt's practice drills.

A stray branch grazed his face as Gilan risked another peek. No sign of Jared at all. Well, that's unfortunate...

Suddenly a strong hand gripped the hood of Gilan's cloak, and he felt himself yanked back through the brush to the other side!

His attacker gave a small yelp as the razor sharp throwing knife gave him a deep scratch on the shoulder. Gilan rolled to a crouching position, sheathed the knife, and drew his sword in one smooth motion. Now that he was in a better situation to defend himself, he got a better look at his surroundings, and his assailant.

The person was rather short (but then again, so were most people compared to Gilan himself). A tuft of blond hair (so definitely not Jared, who has dark black hair) covered his face, and the rest was covered by the hood of his cloak. Though ragged, possibly torn up by clawing thorns of the bracken, it was still unmistakably… a ranger cloak?

The stranger groaned in pain as he held the edge of his cloak on the wound. He cautiously looked up and backed away quickly at the sight of the menacing sword tip. The person then abruptly tripped backwards with a startled yelp over a misshapen grey green lump on the ground. Gilan paused as he registered what the person had tripped over. A cloak covered body laid on the ground, holding a bow with a few arrows missing from the quiver. What Gilan had mistaken for a patch of slightly burnt bush was actually a mop of black hair...

Wait.

If that's Jared…

Clarke slowly pulled back his hood with his free hand. "Um, you're welcome?"


	3. Missing Apprentice

On his way to the port city of Mel's Ford, a stray strand of purple had caught Halt's eye. Locals he encountered on the road said that no one was reported missing, but it was a relatively large town, so they couldn't be sure. An old farmer recalled a few men in the woods near the edge of his cow pasture, and that was where Halt found the threads. Those Genovesans covered their tracks up pretty well, Halt conceded.

The local tavern, the Lucky Heron, was buzzing with activity as Halt ghosted his way in. The smell of sweaty men and alcohol nearly made him go back outside, but he needed to gather information, and this was his only lead so far. Halt selected a deserted corner far away from where the attention was fixed on the dramatic minstrel singing something about a half asleep dragon.

The bartender noticed a new customer and scuttled over, his oily hair slicked back and his face pulled in a practiced fake smile. "Would you like a nice ale? Or-"

"Just coffee." Halt interrupted, placing a coin on the table. The bartender ogled at the gleaming coin with obvious greed.

"Adder Synic, at your service. Anything else, sir?"

Halt shook his head no. Adder quickly brewed a fresh pot of coffee and set down the pot and a mug in front of Halt, unconsciously cleaning the mug with a dirty washcloth that Halt had seen him wipe the counter with before he came over.

"Actually, I want some information." Halt nodded at the coin, "Have you heard of any foreigners carrying crossbows? Perhaps wearing purple cloaks?"

Adder shifted uncomfortably. "Well there were a few locals talking about two men like that yesterday. Said he was asking about them blasted rangers." Halt raised an eyebrow. Adder scratched the back of his head and walked away, before coming back and saying "That's them right over there. They'll probably have more information." He grabbed the coin and scurried off.

Wow. That was a waste of a gold coin. Halt had overheard some of the things those men had mentioned before Adder came along. Yes, the Genovesans were here. They had rented the last boat to Fingle Bay last night. He was hoping that the bartender had access to more information because based on the flattering language they used whenever they mentioned rangers, Halt had no intention of approaching them personally despite switching his trademark mottled cloak for a plain woolen one.

He used the edge of his cloak to wipe the mug cleaner before helping himself to the coffee. It was surprisingly okay, considering that the entire establishment smelled like something the cat drug in.

After spending an uncomfortable night at the inn (Halt was pretty sure the bed was made of bed bugs), he ate a hurried breakfast, only drinking one cup of low quality coffee before riding Abelard to the docks. He was disappointed that there were no boats to Hibernia that day, but Cecile, the next town over, might have some. Halt was nearly relieved; the boats that left yesterday were all tiny fishing boats.

_Those chunks of driftwood wouldn't carry me anyways. You will NOT leave me here. We both know you won't last five minutes without me._ Abelard butted in.

Halt shrugged. He learned long ago not to argue with his horse. It's bad for morale.

Cecile Docks carried a smell of fish at was so overwhelming, Halt nearly got seasick while on land. Just as he finally found a ship (a medium sized cargo ship, relatively fast and very well protected) large enough for Abelard, a small storm rolled in.

Unfortunately it was not enough to keep the ship from sailing.

Quite a number of sailors on the ship made the mistake of laughing at Halt's miserable green face.

They regretted it. A lot.

Seriously.

Halt made sure none of those pesky sailors could see that he nearly had tears in his eyes as the calm Fingle Bay Docks came into view. The weather had subsided enough for him not to empty his stomach once every few minutes. He walked down the ramp with as much dignity as he could muster, and got Abelard out of that tiny shed they called a horse stall (can fit a fully equipped battle horse – yeah right). Abelard looked none the worse for wear, but in severe need of an apple.

Ah, home sweet home.

* * *

Gilan let out a surprised screech. This guy? _What_?

Clarke motioned for him to lower his sword, which he did with great reluctance. Gilan opened his mouth to voice the stream of questions in his mind, but Clarke quickly shushed him with a finger to the lips and a _we'll talk later_ look. Gilan replied with a _what_? look. Clarke rolled his eyes. Bartell, he mouthed. Oh. Right.

The two boys dragged Jared's prone form behind a bush. Gilan was about to walk away when Clarke looked up with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Wait…"

They covered Jared in his mud covered cloak (for extra hiding power). Gilan couldn't help but snicker as he placed some brambles around the even more camouflaged lump. Revenge is sure sweet for someone who tried to kill (or at least seriously hurt or maim).

As the apprentices made their way back to camp, Gilan looked back at what a hectic day it was. First Halt leaves. Then Jared went somewhat insane. Then Clarke revealing himself as, well, Clarke.

The aforementioned boy, on the other hand, was desperately trying to come up with good excuses as to why he assaulted another apprentice, hid the body, and ran away instead of calling for help.

The boys made it back to camp with about half an hour to spare. Bartell was probably still in the forest looking for them, or at least coming back from looking for them.

* * *

"Congratulations, the two of you. You have successfully passed the concealment part of your assessment. Good job! I only managed to pick up some trails… but hey, I didn't find you, so I still count that as passed. Gilan, great job on the false trails - I figured it was you because of your boot size, by the way - and Clarke, watch that cloak edge. I see you got cut up a little. Branches?" Bartell looked inquiringly at Clarke. (Clarke nodded quickly before averting his gaze) "Has anyone seen Jared?"

"I heard he got eaten by a bear." Clarke said, completely emotionless and inspecting his nails.

Bartell looked at him strangely for a second and laughed. "Well I'm sure he'll turn up to silent movement tomorrow. That reminds me - meet me at the obstacle course tomorrow after lunch, okay? You'll be doing archery and knife work tomorrow morning with Harrison. Have fun and best of luck!"

"Think Jared's going to show up for his tests tomorrow?" Gilan whispered behind Bartell's back.

"No idea. Depends on whether or not he's still alive by then."

They walked to an empty corner of the Gathering grounds and sat down on a log. Gilan took a deep breath. "Okay, first things first. Thanks for saving me back there."

Clarke blinked. His pale cheeks reddened to a point where his entire face and neck were a deep maroon. He wasn't complimented that often. "Thanks." He mumbled.

"You're welcome. Second off, is Jared dead?"

"Maybe. I did hit him pretty hard on the head."

"With what, exactly?"

"Saxe knife."

"Which end?"

"His skull's so thick it'd probably dull my blade."

"Soooooo the hilt then?"

"... Yeah."

Gilan breathed a sigh of relief on the inside. So his new kind of friend here isn't some crazy ruthless apprentice assassin. And probably won't be charged with murder. "Alright… how in the world are we going to explain this to Crowley before Jared comes back?"

"Well… actually, I was thinking he'd maybe have some sort of a concussion and... not come back…" Clarke looked at the ground sheepishly.

"So you don't know then?"

"Ummm… no."

"We can probably convince Crowley to hear us out and not tell anyone else. And besides, we were technically defending ourselves. It's not entirely our fault… Jared got what he deserved."

"That he certainly did, my friend." Clarke chuckled.

The ranger commandant ran his fingers through his hair as he took a sip of lukewarm coffee. Ick. He really needed a break from the paperwork. Eh. Lukewarm coffee is better than no coffee… no, it's really not. He sighed.

"HEY CROOOOOWWWWLEYYYY!" He heard Gilan and a slightly less loud Clarke yell (well, technically Crowley only saw Clarke's mouth forming the words in a very loud manner. Nothing could be heard above Gilan's bellowing). He paused and held open the tent flap to let them come in. He totally asked for this one.

"Is there something you wanted to tell me?" Crowley sat down heavily on his "special commandant's chair", which is just a simple wooden stool with a small oak leaf engraved in it. No back support at all.

"Oh, no… we were just screeching out your name because we felt like it," Clarke replied with a dramatic eye roll, at which Crowley raised an eyebrow.

_Still not as good as Halt's eyebrow raise,_ Gilan's sudden thought made him nostalgic. This made him miss the first little part of Clarke's rapid paced explanation as what happened in the forest during their test.

"So let me get this straight. Your concealment test starts, you decide to follow Jared after you spot him tracking one of Gilan's false trails, and you knock him out before he could shoot - and possibly kill - Gilan?"

"Basically." Clarke replied with a serious face.

"Gilan, were you in trouble? Did Jared look like he was purposely trying to hurt you?"

Gilan nodded and started to explain things from his side of the story, only to have Clarke raise a hand and stop him.

"Wait. You won't tell Bartell or anyone else about this, will you?" He asked quickly. Gilan shot Clarke a confused look. _Why is he so concerned about this?_

"... I have to report it in my files, of course, but if you don't want me to I won't openly mention it to anyone, I promise." Crowley gave him a knowing look, to which Gilan added another question to his list.

"Ahem, may I continue now?"

"Ah, yes… so you were saying Jared was shooting arrows after throwing his knife at you?"

"So I crossed the stream and hid in the bracken, which explains the scratches on my arm. I asked for Jared to stop and talk it out twice, but he never replied. Then I felt Clarke pull me through the bracken, and next thing I know, I see Jared unconscious on the ground!"

"And then what did you do with Jared?" Crowley inquired, curious.

"Ummmm… we may have left him under a tree somewhere…" Clarke stammered slightly.

"Why didn't you take him back here?"

"Are you kidding?! He's really heavy! And besides, neither of us felt particularly sorry for him at that time."

"So he's laying there in the forest alone. That's it?"

"Ummm… we may or may not have covered him with his cloak and some branches…"

"Clarke!"

"We didn't want him eaten by a bear…" Gilan offered weakly.

This time Crowley's eyebrow rose to about Halt's level.

"Okay then… that was very wrong of you boys. I want you on horse duty for the remainder of the Gather- nuh uh, even though it's not entirely your fault, but you need to be punished for leaving him out there. Have you told Bartell yet? No? So that's why he was so anxious… I'm going to organize a search party to get Jared back, okay?" He paused at the quiet groans from the two boys, "We'll continue this when (if) he gets back. Understood?"

Gilan and Clarke both nodded meekly and mumbled, "Yes sir."

"Atta boy! Get going now! Don't you boys have some horses to muck out?" Crowley clapped each boy on the shoulder. Clarke let out a strangled yelp as his bunched up cloak slipped to reveal a long and shallow cut.

"Yikes. Did Jared do that?" Crowley asked.

"No, Jared just gave me this bruise on my leg, it was- "

"I kind of gave him that cut when he pulled me through the bush. I thought he was Jared." Gilan said apologetically.

"Ah. Well, that looks like it hurts. Let's go fix you up and hope it's slightly better when you go wallow in horse dung, shall we?"

* * *

The rest of Gilan's assessment went by rather swimmingly. He got top marks in archery and knife work, of course. He even considered the concealment obstacle course and the situational problem solving test easy borderlining fun. I mean, who wouldn't want to find a way to break into a medium sized castle to save a prisoner with nothing but a serving lady and an inside agent? Fun, right?

Clarke had reverted back to his quiet self during his assessment. He and Gilan worked together for the problem solving assessment, and Clarke's snide remarks and jokes managed to make mucking out horses less unbearable.

Sooner than they realized, the Gathering was over. The other rangers were packing up their stuff and of the two other apprentices that passed, one of them was already gone with his ranger back to their fief. Crowley was chatting to Bartell and another ranger when Gilan dragged Clarke there to meet them.

"Still no sign of Jared?" Crowley was asking.

"No, though we did find some disturbed bushes and footprints. We lost him in the stream," Bartell replied with concern heavy in his voice.

"We better find him! Soon as I find out that some rascal hurt him, they will most certainly pay for what they have done!" The grumpy looking ranger scowled.

"Yes, yes, Russell, we'll get your apprentice back eventually. Jamison and Mark are looking for him right now." Crowley quickly soothed the hot tempered man. Russell was the Ranger of Drayden Fief. well known for his temperament. He was rubbing his hands together and pacing back and forth rapidly, half out of his mind with worry.

Crowley noticed Gilan and Clarke standing awkwardly to the side and motioned for them to enter his tent; he'll talk to them in a little bit.

"You! You were there! What happened to Jared? WHERE IS HE?!" Russell all but pounced on poor Clarke (probably because Gilan is Halt's apprentice, and as desperate as he is, Russell does not have a death wish).

"I-I don't know," Clarke looked uncertainly at Crowley. "I… I just heard some screaming and saw Gilan scratched up and I didn't see Jared; me and Gilan just ran back here."

"Are you sure?" Russell gave him a suspicious look. Actually, that may just be his worry lines and baggy eyes from sleep deprivation.

"Yeah! Just ask Gilan!" Clarke nodded. Gilan nodded with him.

"Well, tell me if you remember any details. Both of you," Russell took a deep breath, and in a softer tone he added, "please." He then turned and walked to where his horse was waiting patiently. Another horse, burdened with only a tent and a saddlebag, glumly followed.


	4. Gilan to the Rescue?

Clarke and Gilan followed Crowley into his larger tent. They both had guilty and uneasy expressions on their faces.

"Well," Crowley began. "Hopefully Jared finds his way back before the next Gathering."

Sad little nods.

"Well, I can see that you feel bad for what you have done, so I won't have to give you another lecture."

_Yay._ Both Gilan and Clarke gave a small sigh of relief.

"Just wait till Halt gets back… he'll do it for me probably."

Gilan gave Crowley a horrified look.

"I'm just joking!" Crowley hastily amended with a chuckle. "...more or less."

Gilan thought for a second and nodded. "He'll probably come back and murder you and Jared instead." Clarke let out a small laugh.

"Speaking of Halt… I have a slight problem and I need your help with," Crowley said.

"He's fine, right?" Gilan asked uneasily.

"Huh? Yeah, yeah. I just think he may need a little backup. You know, just in case."

"Oh." Gilan said uncertainly.

"Anyways, Gilan, the plan is for you to go after Halt. I have a list of places he's been and I have a decent idea where he's going to go. You will have to get to Clonmel, though. And it may be dangerous given the unknowns of the situation. Just... think of this as an extra assessment task, but in real life."

"That's very reassuring, Crowley." Clarke put in dryly.

Gilan didn't say anything. He was trying to remember back to the little glimpse of the letter Crowley got three days ago. Terror plot? Yikes. That does sound dangerous.

"So… I have to go to Hibernia, find Halt, and help him defeat these 'Outsiders' on my own?" Gilan asked nervously.

"Basically!" Crowley replied. "Easy peasy, right?"

Gilan's face looked a little stricken.

"'One riot, one ranger.' isn't that how the saying goes?" Clarke added.

"Not helping…" Gilan muttered.

"It's not ideal, but given the circumstances, I think Halt still needs help. And more importantly, Gilan gets hands on experience," Crowley explained.

"..."

"Come on! It'll be fun!" Crowley said encouragingly.

"Can't you come with me?"

"You have no idea how much I want to… but as Commandant, I have a responsibility to other rangers. And, of course, I have to wait for Jamison and Mark to come back, hopefully with Jared too."

Gilan continued to looked slightly terrified at the prospect. Going with Halt was one thing, but on his own?

Clarke was just sitting there quietly watching this conversation when he spoke up. "What about me?"

"You'll be doing your regular schedule; I think you're with Mark this month actually… wait a second."

Gilan looked up hopefully with puppy dog eyes as both he and Crowley reached the same conclusion.

"How about… Clarke, would you mind going with Gilan?"

"I can? Sweet!" Clarke cheered (he was seriously dreading a month with Mark. That man was _crazy_).

"Alright, now that that's taken care of, how 'bout you boys go pack up? I'm going to inform Mark of your trip once he comes back."

Gilan walked out of the tent considerably less concerned for his life than he was two minutes ago while Clarke walked out whistling happily.

"I am a genius." Crowley gave himself a satisfied smile before realizing just in time that his stool doesn't allow kicking back and relaxing.

Gilan saddled Blaze and gave her an apple. The horse nickered her thanks and devoured it.

_How many are you bringing for the trip?_

"None, probably." Gilan laughed as she headbutted him in fake distress. "At least, none for you specifically. Halt says I spoil you."

_No, you don't. And that's just mean. Can I have another one then?_

"No, Blaze." Gilan laughed as he got on her back.

Clarke looked up at Blaze with a little envy. His slightly above average ranger horse, though not average like a normal horse, looked comparatively like a shaggy oversized dog. "Come on, Lexa. We're going on an adventure!" Lexa did not look very excited.

_Do I get an apple too?_

* * *

Halt was not in a good mood as he wandered along a narrow street jammed with people. He had planned to scout out this village after overhearing a few new Outsider converts talking about how their fellow villagers should follow the "great and generous leader Tennyson..." (Halt didn't get to listen too long before he had to sneak away to avoid people).

Tenny-whatever-his-name-is was giving more speeches to the few staunch villagers reluctant to join immediately, and Halt decided to try and reveal the Outsider's false claims to them. He was observing the leader giving a speech from the nearby inn, too far to hear clearly, but it was obvious the speech was powerful. After a few minutes of the speech, he could hear the rest of the villagers calling, "Long live Alseiass! Long live the Golden God!"

Typical.

After observing a few towns, Halt guessed (pretty much correctly for his limited knowledge) that a few hired bandits would burst out of the treeline a hundred meters away from the village square and Tenny-who-ever-that-is and his little choir of angels will sing them away. Which is why Halt had taken the liberty of finishing them off that afternoon. Now that that was over, he looked down on the speaker, who was getting increasingly agitated. The short plump man in gleaming white robes rubbed his hands together as one of his more burly bodyguard/henchman whispered something in his ear. His eyes widened in surprise.

"Good people of Kerryring, I regret to announce to you the evil god Balsennis has struck again!" cried the speaker, louder this time, over the murmurings of the crowd. "A group of poor men have been found dead in the forest, with evidence that it was Balsennis's work!"

Gasps sounded from the crowd. Then, one man called out, "Protect us!" and everyone followed.

Halt cursed. This guy was good at manipulation. Too good.

He stood up from his vantage point from the window of a nearby inn with an abnormally large amount of floors. Stairs are the bane of everyone's existence.

Very well. Plan B.

* * *

The trip from Kerryring to Dun Kilty was surprisingly fast. Halt reined in Abelard as they reached the busy marketplace. He bought an apple for Abelard and some fresh bread and cheese for himself as they made their way to the local inn.

The tavern downstairs was filled with people as Halt walked in. The popular traveling minstrel strummed his lute and was singing Old Joe Smoke loudly over the din of the crowd.

_Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke._

_Fare thee well, I say._

_Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke._

_I'll see you on your way._

Halt was humming as he went back to check on Abelard. The horse looked absolutely minute compared to the other horses in the stalls, and they all looked at him jealously as Halt gave him a good brushing and, the main source of their jealousy, another apple.

Abelard crunched blissfully on the juicy apple. Halt finished brushing him and returned the brush to his pack hanging on the hook nearby. "Do you think it's a good idea to go find her?" Halt asked quietly.

_As long as you get back here alive, in one piece, and with an apple, anything's fine. Are you sure you don't have any other choices?_

Halt rubbed his eyes a little. "I'm working on it…"

_Don't take too long._

"Hmph. Going around trying to stop each individual group took too long. If you come up with something better than Caitlyn, let me know."

_Very well. I will. Tell me again how you're going to contact her again?_

"I'm working on that too."

Abelard snorted. Halt suspected he even rolled his eyes.

Halt patted Abelard on the neck and went up to his room for the night.


	5. Should've Thought Twice Before Ambushing

Gilan groaned as he slid off Blaze. He and Clarke had found a pretty good place to camp a few hundred meters off the road. Or, more appropriately, the trail. They were taking a shortcut through the forest, following various game trails on their way to Mel's Ford, the popular port city known for fast ships. Hopefully, they can catch one to Hibernia without too much trouble.

After a second long hard day of traveling at the ranger's forced march without much conversation, the two boys decided to settle for the night. The gravity of their situation had finally set in after the first half hour of chatting and got them worrying about various things that could possibly go wrong, hence the silence. They were two fifteen year olds (with Clarke _barely_ fifteen) traveling to another _country_ with _nothing_ but a _general_ idea of what's going on. What if someone questions them? What if they run out of money? And of course the most important one of all, _how in the world are they going to find Halt when they get there_?

"You want to go grab some wood while I get some water to cook?" Clarke asked after they both gave their horses a good brushing and let them graze nearby.

"Sure, we should be safe enough here. I don't know about you, but I can sure use a good, hot meal right about now."

They gathered around the small campfire, sitting on a log that Clarke rolled over and waiting as their stew slowly came to a boil.

Uncomfortable silence is uncomfortable.

Gilan cleared his throat, trying to get rid of some awkwardness. "Um. So. How's your day been?"

"Same as yours." Clarke replied absentmindedly.

"Okay... What's your worst case scenario idea so far then?"

"What? What makes you think... oh. Umm. Worst case scenario. We're too late and we can't find Halt and we run out of money and we raise suspicion and we die?"

Gilan thought for a moment. "Yeah, those are a few of mine too."

The silence was almost deafening as it dragged on for a few more agonizing minutes before Gilan served the savory smelling stew.

"Mmmm..." Clarke sighed in content as they both ate their fill. "I wish at least one of my mentors would teach me how to cook like _this_!"

Gilan looked at him strangely. "What do you mean, mentors?"

"I-I mean mentor. Yeah. My _mentor_ is Julian!"

Gilan raised an eyebrow. He was pretty sure Julian had an apprentice named Norbert or something. Halt was talking about them before the Gathering. Something's not right. "Didn't Crowley say something about you being with Mark this month? What'd he mean by that?"

"Oh... well, Julian's often doing... stuff, so he's really busy. Other rangers without apprentices take turns mentoring me, so my training has been really scattered."

"Okay…" Gilan could see the last part was at least a bit truthful. He opened his mouth to ask more questions but noticed Clarke seemed uneasy and, well, suspicious. Why would he hide his training? Why lie about a mentor? What's going on?

Blaze suddenly snorted and rumbled a warning as Lexa danced nervously to Clarke's side protectively.

Gilan signaled that he got her warning. He slowly drew his bow and melted into the wavering shadows of the surrounding trees. Clarke did likewise. Suddenly, a group of about ten ragtag men jumped over a bush with an intimidating roar.

"Alright, let's do this the easy way. Hold up your hands and- Wait. RORY, YOU BASTARD! THERE'S NO ONE HERE!"

"B-but that's impossible! I saw them with my own eyes! Two young boys were just sitting there on that log!"

The first man who talked, presumably the leader of the group, gave Rory a withering gaze and said, "That's going on your record, you imbecile. Men! Three of you search the surrounding area! Find the boys and kill them! The other people with me! Find anything of value!"

Gilan and Clarke shared a look. Blaze and Lexa had hidden themselves not far from here. This may not end well. For those few bandits.

_On three_. Gilan mouthed. Clarke nodded.

One of the bandits looked up from where he was crouched inspecting the boys' bags. "What's that so-" He gave a strangled yelp as an arrow pierced his arm, and he fell hard to the ground. Along with him were six other men, groaning and curled on the ground as the arrows sprung out of nowhere. A seventh was on the ground also, but an arrow sticking out of his chest. He was dead.

"It's Balsennis! The evil god has struck! Alseiass save us all!" The leader cried and took off. Gilan and Clarke fired some more shots and he fell on top of the bush, an arrow deep in his left leg.

"Who the heck are Balsennis and Alseiass?" Clarke wondered out loud as he and Gilan secured the bandits with thumb cuffs and tied them to the convenient trees.

"Hmm… I've never heard of them before… sounds like a foreign deity to me." Gilan rolled another groaning man to the tree. He pulled out his gray arrow, earning a moan from the half-conscious bandit. Gilan cringed at the wound and pulled out his medical kit. Some warmweed dressing and a bandage later, the man was also tied up with the others.

"What was your first clue?" Clarke said facetiously as he dealt with his attacker-turn-prisoner, who was whimpering as the brown arrow was extracted from his calf. "The whole 'evil god has struck' thing or asking one of them to save them?"

"Well, you're the one who asked, so…" Gilan rolled the last man, the one they called Rory, who was crumpled up on his side. He paused, a sickening sensation growing with every passing second. "Umm… Clarke?"

"What?"

"I think you'd better come look at this…"

Clarke rolled his eyes and came over and peered over Gilan's shoulder, "What could be so special about a bunch of semiconscious moron..." He let out a little gasp and stumbled back as he saw the brown arrow in the man's chest. "B-but I was aiming for his shoulder! H-he must've turned at the last second to avoid it! I..." Clarke sat down and back up to the log, as if he could melt in and not exist any more. He blinked rapidly and his breaths came out quick and shallow.

"H-hey," Gilan said shakily. "It was an accident. You didn't mean it…"

Clarke buried his head in his arms and just sat there. He didn't want Gilan to see tears streaming down his face. He, Clarke, the unwanted, foreign, sarcastic little boy with an attitude no one really liked, was a murderer.

"I killed him."

* * *

Gilan was uncertain how to proceed. His friend was in obvious shock (to be quite honest Gilan was too). Clarke had stopped hyperventilating after about the first half hour and just sat there staring at nothing. Gilan thought back ironically to that moment just barely a few days ago when he had briefly wondered if Clarke was a crazy ruthless apprentice assassin. He hadn't expect anything to end up like _this_.

So much for an adventure.

The awkward silence (unless you count the occasional moans of the boys' captives) was broken when Blaze and Lexa cantered back to the campsite at around nine thirty. Blaze had a few nicks on her flank, but was otherwise okay. Lexa seemed to have a slight limp, but she ignored Gilan's concerned gaze as she stoically walked directly over to Clarke. He buried his face in her mane but didn't fail to notice her limp before he did. After a good minute of sitting in that position, Clarke slowly got up and motioned for her to stay down as she attempted to also. Clarke clicked his tongue. "Slightly sprained ankle. I don't think we can continue at a forced march for an entire day until it heals. I'm sorry, girl. It must hurt a lot."

Gilan (and the prisoners) looked up. This has been the first time Clarke has spoken for two hours now. His voice was a little hoarse and his eyes were slightly red, but he seemed otherwise calm and in control.

Gilan handed Clarke his medical kit and went back to treating Blaze's cuts. His heart wrenched at a particularly long (but thankfully shallow) cut. "I'm sorry too, Blaze."

_It's not your fault. Besides, we were more than a match for those three men. Ouch. That one stings. Okay, okay! I'm fine now. You should talk to Clarke. He needs more attention than I do at this point._

Gilan raised an eyebrow.

_Unless, of course, you have an apple._

Gilan chuckled and gave her an apple he had saved from lunch.

After both horses were doctored, groomed, and fed apples, Clarke and Gilan sat down on the log, rubbing their tired eyes. "So, what do we do now?" Gilan mused as he fixed a crooked fletching on one of his gray arrows.

"We get to Mel's Ford, of course." Clarke replied immediately, his voice still lacking the usual spirit it had.

"You know you don't have to keep going, right? I can manage by myself. Especially when Lexa is hurt…"

"I'm not going to leave you here alone."

"I'm not alone. I have Blaze."

"Ha. Yeah. Good luck dragging seven men to the local jail. By yourself. I'm still coming with you whether you like it or not."

"But…" Gilan thought quickly. He would love to have Clarke with him, but at the same time, Lexa's injury may slow them down. But Gilan does need someone to help him with the bandits… who knows what he and Halt will be up against…

"We won't slow you down." Clarke said as he saw Gilan thinking. "Blaze is injured too, and I can just run beside Lexa if I need to."

That's true…

"Besides. You will need someone who knows his way around."

Gilan snorted. "Did you like memorize the map of Hibernia or something?"

"No. I lived there." Clarke left it at that and refused to explain further.

Gilan didn't pursue the topic any longer. The boys took the bandits to jail as planned, with Clarke taking two at once and alerting the local officials to pick the others up.

The apprentice had to do some serious persuading and made up his and Gilan's alibis on the spot. Gilan, on the other hand, had to resecure and threaten two of the bandits before they would quiet down and stop struggling. He also confiscated their knives they had hidden in their boots. Those things were _so cool_ though.

"Seriously? _Dorian_?! You just couldn't think of a more _normal_ name?" Gilan exclaimed once they were back on the road. The boys have opted to use the main road instead of cutting through the woods, eager to avoid another incident with crazy bandits. They have left right after the prisoners were delivered, hoping to also avoid questioning authorities and others. Thankfully, Clarke had somehow managed to whip out two dull gray woolen cloaks, so the boys could pass for two brothers or cousins traveling together, not two miniature rangers that practice dark magic (at least according to the local farmers).

Clarke smirked wanly, "Well, _Dorian_, it's a bit difficult to come up with a completely believable alibi with five prison guards wondering why a young boy in a ranger's cloak was followed obediently by a limping bloody dog horse (no offense, Lexa) and was towing two men covered in arrows behind him?"

"Fair point. But I still wouldn't have picked _Dorian_!"

Clarke stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes. "Like Cageney is much better. I panicked, okay?"

* * *

Mel's Ford was surprisingly small town considering its busy wharf although, considering Gilan had been around in Wensley Village and Castle Araluen, most villages already seemed pretty small. He wasn't sure what he was expecting of the port city, but it was certainly not the smell of fish, sweat, and filthy rotten wood. The sight of the ships almost made up for the smells though. Though some were small fishing boats, there were many ships flying flags of many colors and had masts taller than some buildings. Sailors and other men hustled around in a in a seemingly chaotic order but somehow still manage to work synchronously with their own crew to get things done.

The shrill cries of seagulls and the yelling of men was quite enough to give Clarke a migraine. He, unlike Gilan, had grew up with ships everywhere in his childhood. His father was a merchant who sold miscellaneous things in their little portside shop. You need cloth or a new mast, he's got it. You need a fishing rod, he's got it. You need freaking pink baby boots, he also has that. Clarke grimaced at all the signs and reminders of his father. The yelling men? His father hired some men (from the pub of all places. He was really strict with money) to haul his merchandise to and from the ship he owned. Gulls? His father sold a particularly feisty one names Mordered a few years ago (why anyone would want to buy a seagull was beyond him, but it fetched a nice price). Anyways, Mordered pooped on the client. Good Mordered.

Clarke shrugged off bad memories and rolled his eyes yet again as he pulled an awestruck Gilan along through the crowd. The past is in the past, and it's going to stay there.

"Well, what we do has is a boat to Wexford, should be big 'nouf for the beasts ya got there." The wharfmaster grunted in a _very_ strong accent. It was almost as strong as the smell of liquor in his breath.

Clarke stiffened at the sound of his hometown. Wexford was not very well known, why would anyone… Oh. Lovely.

He glanced quickly at Gilan as he (Gilan) haggled the price with the wharfmaster. _You've got to be _joking _me._

Gilan stared at the poorly repaired "ship" that was to take them to Wexford. "This? This is what we paid _four entire gold coins_ for?!"

Clarke said nothing as he quickly walked on the ship, avoiding the glances from the crew as he made his way rather knowledgeably to the place he and Gilan would be staying cooped up for most of the trip. The horse stalls. Lexa, having been carefully hauled on the ship, followed and only gave a disappointed snort of protest when she saw her stall.

_This is it? You can't do any better than this? This isn't a stall, it's a tiny water trough. You better have brought apples._

Blaze wasn't much better; her larger frame made the space seem even more cramped.

This was going to be a _long_ ride.


	6. (Not) Finding Jared

Crowley looked up as Jamison emerged silently into the deserted Gathering ground with a solemn look on his face. The two men were scouring the forest along with Russell, who had hurried back from his fief after arranging retired ranger Oliver to take over for time being. It's been nearly a week since Jared was missing, and they was getting worried. Not just the _Oh no we have an apprentice missing!_ type of worried. It was more of a _OH MY _(some kind of swear word inserted) _WHERE IS JARED IS THAT LITTLE DENT IN THE DIRT A FOOTPRINT LETS FOLLOW IT WE CAN'T JUST SIT HERE AND DO NOTHING WHAT IF HE'S HURT?!_ kind of panic. At least, Russell was like that. Crowley sat down heavily on a tree stump and placed his head in his hands. This was getting nowhere.

Mark, the ranger who was searching with Jamison for a few days past the Gathering, had to go take care of his own fief. Crowley was reluctant to let him go, but duty calls. Crowley could almost hear the stack of paperwork getting taller and taller on his desk at Castle Araluen. Thankfully, Pauline and Nigel had volunteered to take over minor businesses at Castle Redmont nearby while Crowley investigated a little further.

"No sign of him anywhere. I checked the northwest corner of the forest already. None of the locals have seen anything either." Jamison rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Crowley. I really am, but I have to go back to Aspienne. Arthur said he could look after my fief for three days. It's been twice that amount and as much as I want to help, I must go back."

Crowley held up a hand, sensing (correctly) that Jamison had prepared an entire hour long speech on why he should go back. "I understand. It's alright. You really don't have to explain it in full detail. Russell might take some persuading though, so I suggest you pack now and tell him when you're leaving."

Jamison paused; he had expected more resistance from Crowley (and he was also looking forward to presenting the speech he prepared on his way here). "Thanks." He managed a small smile before heading back to the deserted Gathering ground to get his stuff.

-a few moments later-

"Calm down, Russell. I've been searching for a week now. _We've_ been searching for a week. My fief needs me. Thanks for understanding. I really hope Jared is okay." Jamison said quickly as he nudged his horse along.

Russell shouted some more abuse.

Crowley put a hand on Russell's shoulder. "Russell…" He began, unsure how the mentally unstable ranger will respond.

"What." Russell asked in a semi-angry, semi-flat voice. He seemed to have deflated a little after Jamison left. "Don't tell me, you're leaving too, aren't you." He gave a small chuckle. "I won't be leaving until Jared gets found, so go on. Leave. I-" Russell stopped short as Crowley shook his head.

"No, I'm not leaving until Jared is found, either. But shaking the locals for information is not how we do things, Russell. You know that. I know you care deeply for Jared, but I think you need to calm down. Take a break. Go back to your fief. You doing this doesn't help Jared's case at all. Look, I promise I will send word as soon as anything comes up, okay? Trust me."

Russell weighed the pros and cons in his head. After a few minutes, he gave Crowley a glare. "Dammit. You better find him, Crowley."

Crowley gave a small laugh (though inwardly it sounded a little nervous to himself), "Sure thing, buddy. Come on, it's getting late. You can leave tomorrow if you'd like, but please, don't stay up terrorizing the locals again." He gave a smile to let Russell know he was kidding with the "terrorizing" jib. Unfortunately, Russell didn't seem to take notice.

* * *

Halt rubbed his eyes. Minimal sleep was not doing him any good. He probably looked no better than some of those beggars in the street, except that he had a very nice horse.

Abelard raised an eyebrow (do horses have eyebrows?). _I most certainly am a very nice horse. You, on the other hand... Less so. That reminds me. You really need a new cloak. And a trim._

Halt shrugged his more or less threadbare cloak to a better position on his shoulders while glancing longingly at his ranger cloak hidden in his bag. He grumbled, "That's it. No more apples until we get to Caitlyn."

_That's not very nice to your very nice horse, is it?_

They continued in relatively comfortable silence through the village market outside Castle Dun Kilty. This was their second day in the capital of Clonmel. Halt had not planned to stay for this long, but the restless nights coming up with a feasible plan were all fruitless.

Keeping his head down, he lead Abelard back to the inn. Halt was starting to worry. Maybe what he needed was a good night's sleep in a decent bed. He yawned again. After settling Abelard in a stall, Halt retired himself, finally allowing his mind to relax. Just as he felt himself drifting off, Halt started thinking about Gilan. Dammit. The Gathering should be over now. Halt mentally berated himself for taking so long and not being there for his apprentice when he got his bronze oakleaf. He then felt a surge of pride. Gilan would have excelled in the assessments. No doubt about it. Halt briefly wondered where Gilan was. With Crowley, most likely. Waiting impatiently for him to come home. Probably playing some silly prank or practicing (more like showing off) his silent movement. Or both at once. Most likely both at once.

Halt grinned at the mental image of his apprentice dumping water on Crowley as he finally fell asleep.

He woke up refreshed the next morning to the faint sounds of the marketplace below. Oh, yeah. It was Market Day. The usual market swelled to triple its normal size as people from all around gather for news, supplies, and great food. Halt's stomach rumbled.

"Will you be having the usual, sir?" The serving girl, _Natalie_, Halt remembered, smiled as she set down a pot of coffee and a jar of honey. Halt gave a small nod and his thanks. It felt nice to be called _sir_ again after Gilan fell out of that habit two months into his training. Halt stirred two spoonfuls of honey into the hot coffee and took an appreciative sip. This girl certainly knew how to make a good coffee.

After a very satisfying breakfast, Halt went back up to his room. He didn't want to be caught up in the morning traffic, though it can be a very good way to hear snippets of interesting conversation in the crowds. _Abelard is right, too. This cloak is falling apart._ Halt sighed as he got up and out the door.

He maneuvered around the colorful shops and stalls as he wandered around, ears pricked up to hear conversations and holding an apple in one sleeve. He slipped in the horse stalls and gave Abelard the apple.

_That cloak looks simply ridiculous._ Abelard commented on the cloak Halt just purchased.

"Shut up, they didn't have any my size and the seamstress was out of town."

_You could've gotten a child's cloak and be done with it_. Abelard pointed out.

Halt huffed in annoyance. "Well, I'm going back outside to look around and hopefully come up with a plan without your ever so helpful commentary."

_Always glad to be of service._

Halt rolled his eyes and melted into the crowd, leaving Abelard to finish his apple.


	7. Blind, Blue, Blithering Blazes (Roughly

"We'll never find him on this crowd." Clarke said as he observed the shifting mass of people. Gilan tried his best to keep optimistic as he felt his heart sink slowly. Clarke was most likely right. This was going to be close to impossible.

The two boys had left Wexford as soon as they got off the boat. Gilan was confused why Clarke didn't relax to his usual self until they were a good two towns away.

~~(yesterday)~~

"Slow down!" Gilan called out as he noticed the other boy get on Lexa and started off the road leading out of Wexford. Clarke looked back at him; Gilan had just saddled Blaze and was leading her through the crew of men unloading a large table from the ship they were on, the _Blue Whale_.

Why they were bringing down a table and a box of scarves was beyond Gilan, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind as he quickly caught up with his friend.

"Can we get out of here?" Clarke asked in a tight voice Gilan hadn't heard since the Gathering. Wow, was that just only a week ago? It seemed like a lifetime away. "I think the sea air is getting to me." Clarke added as an explanation.

Gilan shrugged, "Sure," even though he was craving a nice bath and actual food. Clarke's face did look slightly green. The two boys lead their horses through the crowded market square to the less crowded road. Gilan's craving intensified when they passed a second inn; his stomach growled as he smelled the lamb stew served inside.

_Lamb stew_. His stomach grumbled.

No.

_Fine. Coooffffffeeeeee._

Lexa's limp seemed to be better. The swelling had gone down, and thankfully there was no sign of anything wrong. Clarke gave a sigh of relief. It was a light sprain. He generally let Lexa walk unburdened, but something came across him at the wharf. He completely forgot everything except why he had ran away in the first place, so he hopped on Lexa and took off. Clarke felt bad for seemingly leaving Gilan behind for a little bit, and also for pushing Lexa when her ankle just healed.

_I can take it._ Lexa told him kindly when he apologized. _I'm just a little sore is all._

"Okay let's see… Crowley says Halt has been to Colrath, High Field, Firgrove… Clarke? Clarke, you listening?" Gilan looked up from his notes. Said boy looked up with a huh? and looked sheepishly as he saw Gilan looking at him.

"Um yeah. I was absolutely listening to everything you were saying. Of course. Ahem. Just to be certain can you say that again? I heard something that sounded like cold wrap?" His voice was a bit tight.

Gilan rolled his eyes. "I _said_, Halt's been to Colrath, High Field, and Firgrove. According to the notes, he was headed for Kerryring…"

Clarke nodded. "Should we go there? Oh, wait. Crowley got the notes like a week ago, surely Halt's moved on?"

"True… his next stop was a town called Burges… wherever that is."

"I think it's somewhere between Dun Kilty and Kerryring… Closer to Dun Kilty." Clarke shrugged uncertainly. "What? Did you pay attention when they taught geography of Hibernia?"

"With a mentor like Halt, yeah. Not that I remembered any of it the next week…" Gilan grinned. "We could probably ask for directions the next town we pass."

"I think... that's Dun Kilty. Well, I've always wanted to see the capital of Clonmel!"

* * *

~~(back to the present)~~

Halt swore quietly as people after people keep nearly stepping on his brand new cloak. Ugh, he missed his ranger cloak, but even in a foreign country like this, the mottled pattern would be noticeable compared to the other cloaks. He decided to send a message to Crowley and update him and Gilan on what's been happening.

He found his way to the pigeon master, but paused as he saw it boarded it up. The cracked window sills were covered in a thick layer of dust. It seemed alien compared to the lively, bustling place Halt had stopped by occasionally in his childhood. What happened?

* * *

On the other side of town, Gilan and Clarke rode slowly through the mass of people. They had ridden for the better half of the day, and both boys were tired and achy. The calls of merchants selling various goods and the smell of hot, freshly cooked food persuaded them to stop and stay for time being.

"We can probably afford a day. Besides, I want to make sure Lexa isn't pushed too hard, regardless of whether her ankle has healed or not." Clarke mumbled, his face stuffed with a sweet pastry.

Gilan nodded in reluctant agreement. As much as he wanted to find Halt quickly, he was _starving_. His stomach spoke up again. _Foooood._

"Let's go to the inn then."

As they situated Blaze and Lexa in the infinitely more comfortable horse stalls next to the inn (_anything_ was better than that ship), Gilan gave a cry of surprise as he heard a familiar snort. He spun around, and standing in the farmost corner was none other than Abelard.

_Took you long enough._ Abelard gave Blaze and Lexa a greeting nod and said to Gilan. He didn't seem the least bit surprised that they were there. Maybe that was just a horse thing.

Gilan gave him a wide grin. "Where's Halt?" He asked.

_Oh sure, don't ask about me; I'm perfectly fine. Halt went for a walk in the market to "clear his mind" or something like that. You couldn't have missed him, he was walking around in that ridiculous new cloak of his._

"Sorry, how are you, Abelard?"

_Didn't I just say that I'm perfectly fine?_

"Oh. Right. So you know when Halt's coming back?"

_I don't know. I only act like I know everything. It's a horse thing, as you put it._

Blaze and Lexa snorted in laughter as Clarke shook his head, grinning.

_My guess is he'll be back by lunch. He usually stops by and takes care of me before that lazy stable boy gets here._

"Thanks, Abelard. It is really good to see you, you know." Gilan gave him a pat on the neck.

_Likewise. _Abelard rumbled.

Clarke leaned against the wall. "Sorry to break up this tearful reunion here, but I think someone's coming…"

He was right. A shadow covered the doorway. A short figure in a swishing dark cloak walked in. Gilan was like a human cannonball, bowling the newcomer over and smothering his short frame in a rib crushing hug. "Halt! I missed you so much how've you been I'm so glad we found you hey what's been happening is everything okay can you come home now oh and this is Clarke and Lexa Clarke is very nice…"

Halt was not sure how to react.

Oh. Wait.

"WHAT THE BLIND BLUE BLITHERING BLAZES ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

Gilan recoiled as if Halt had slapped him, a look a sadness and shock on his young face. Halt mentally cursed himself, simultaneously reminding not to apologize later.

"Excuse me," Clarke butted in warily as mentor and student looked at each other. "Before you kill us… Crowley sent us."

Gilan was unsure how to continue. _Was Halt not glad to see him? Did he not say to meet up with him when they got their oakleaves? Did he do something wrong?_

Halt took a breath and started again. "What are you doing here? Is Crowley with you?"

Before Gilan could say anything else, Halt added, "I know I just asked two sentences in a row. Just get on with it and _start explaining_."

"Well after you left I went on and practiced like you told me to and the concealment test started and me and Clarke and Jared went in the woods and we hid from Bartell and Jared attacked me and Clarke saved me and he turned out to be a pretty great guy and…"

"First of all, it's Clarke, Jared, and _I_." Clarke interrupted. "Second, this might take a while, and no offense to the horses or anything, but I would rather not stay in this musty stable for the entire night. Can we at least go put our stuff down in the inn?"


	8. Some Explanations are in Order

After they were all comfortably situated in Halt's room as the room next door was cleaned, Gilan took a huge mug of coffee and lathered it with honey, much to the approval of Halt and the wonder and slight disgust of Clarke. "Ahem. So…"

"Shortened version, please. We haven't got all night." Halt said between sips of coffee.

"Okay, so…"

"Start at after you were attacked by Jared." Clarke offered quite unnecessarily.

"_Can I please start talking without getting interrupted now?"_ Gilan glared at both of them. Clarke looked out the window as Halt returned Gilan's gaze.

"I don't know. _Can_ you?"

"_May_ I start talking now?" Gilan rolled his eyes.

"Yes, you may. Like I said, we haven't got all night."

"After Clarke saved me by knocking Jared out, we kinda… left him in a bush." Gilan winced and risked a glance at Halt, whose face remained impassive. "We were sure he would wake up and find his way back, so we just covered him with his cloak and left... but on the last day of the Gathering, he still wasn't back, and Crowley sent Mark and Jamison to go look for him… Russell nearly choked Clarke to death he was so worried…"

Halt grunted "Sounds like Russell. I take it Jared hasn't been found?"

"Eh… Before we stuck around to find out Crowley told us Baron Arald sent him a note saying that… er... you needed help?"

Halt raised an eyebrow at that. "I needed... help?"

"Well you were gone _forever_…" Gilan rushed to keep taking as Halt drew a breath. "Anyways, Crowley was going to send me to come find you since the Gathering was over, and Clarke decided to come with me. We packed and left soon after. You should've seen us! We were attacked by some bandits on our second day and we fought them off!" He and Clarke shared a glance. Clarke subtly shook his head. Gilan nodded in understanding. Halt watched this in great (disguised) interest, unnoticed by the boys. Gilan continued, "It was terrifying! Oh, by the way, do you know who or what 'Balsennis and Alseiass' are? The bandits were talking about them…"

Gilan gave Halt a surprised look as he (Halt) let out a quiet but explosive curse (Halt made a mental note to murder Crowley when they get home).

"Might as well," Halt muttered to himself as the boys looked at him, curious. "This cult that I've been trailing for all this time, the Outsiders, created a religion where Alseiass, the "golden god", protects his followers from the evil false god Balsennis. They go from village to village, converting the people and asking them for gold and valuables as offerings."

Clarke gave a small laugh. "Who in the world would believe such stupid things?"

Halt gave him a small glance. "You haven't heard their leader talk before. He is charismatic, smooth, confident, and most of all, friendly and sympathetic to his audience. He plays on their anger and their weaknesses. Also, they don't force the villagers to worship their god. At least, not directly. The group gets situated in a village, there's a few speeches, but according to them, Alseiass is 'all loving and will respect their religious beliefs'. Then, the bandits start attacking."

Gilan's eyes widened. "They use the bandits to 'prove' Alseiass is real, don't they! They'll chase them away somehow and the villagers will think Alseiass protected them!"

Halt nodded grimly, "Precisely. They sing a few songs, and the bandits will scatter and hold their ears and retreat back into the woods like the very devil is behind them. But that's not all. The group of Outsiders will leave after a few days, and the bandits will attack again, this time pillaging and destroying the village 'in the name of Balsennis'. Then the villagers will have no choice but to ask the Golden God for help, and that's one village converted and a whole lot of money for the Outsiders."

"That's… really smart, actually." Clarke muttered grudgingly. "Evil, but smart. _This_ is who we're up against? Forget having us as backup, we need an army or something!"

"Unfortunately, we don't have an army. Besides, Duncan wouldn't risk his army just to save Clonmel. He needs to focus on getting the Outsiders out of Araluen before they take us over too."

"What can we do?" Gilan asked nervously.

"First, finish your story. Did you see any Outsider activity after you got here?"

"I don't think so… Clarke?"

Clarke shifted. "After we rented the boat to Wexford, I… I just forgot about everything. I was so focused on… crap. I shouldn't have said that."

Gilan looked at his friend in concern. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about Wexford."

Clarke shook his head rapidly. "My actions were inexcusable. I nearly abandoned you and almost caused Lexa to injure herself more. Besides, someone should know, right?" His face wore a twisted expression, he continued in a small voice. "That boat we were on… that was my father's. I didn't… I couldn't… face him again. But it was the only boat, we had no choice." He took a breath. "My father… he is a merchant. He owns a store right on the edge of the wharf. It sold everything, literally. I lived with him after my ma died giving birth to my little sister, who also died a little bit after. Father was… he was depressed. Then the business started failing, and we were slowly going into debt. I… I resorted to stealing. Nothing much, just a few coins off on the people who looked like they could afford it. This helped us stay alive, but only just. Then I started stealing objects. Little trinkets, toys, anything we could sell that might interest customers. Father didn't know. He was too busy drinking our money away... The business was stabilized for a while, even considering Father's love of alcohol… but then I noticed the people poorer than we were. At least Da and I were still able to eat. They didn't have anything. So I started giving the things to them instead, you know, to help them out a little. Father found out about a month in. I thought he'd be furious at me for stealing, but he wasn't. He was mad that I wasn't giving the things I took to him. He… he said I was a traitor to the family. It was my fault the business was failing. He chased me out... I was wandering the street for a week until I decided to try and make a living for myself. But no one would take in a ten year old boy for work."

Gilan was watching him with wide eyes, "Clarke…"

"One day I just gave up. I started living on this ship. It hadn't been touched for over a week, and it was filled with stuff. Like before, I didn't take much, just enough so my stomach couldn't be heard growling. This continued for another week, and then the people on the ship came back. I was sleeping at the time, and I didn't notice we were moving till we had already been sailing for a while. I was found and arrested, and that was when I found out this was the royal ambassador ship, from Araluen. I convinced them to not take me back here, and they agreed I wasn't a spy and arranged to let me off in Araluen. This really nice lady on the ship really helped me a lot. She was really smart, I remember. So after I got off, I was sent to an orphanage. I tried to stay there, I really did. But somehow I went back to stealing and living by myself. That is, until Crowley found me. He took me in and allowed me to train as an apprentice, as long as I didn't steal any more."

Halt scratched his beard thoughtfully. "I do recall Pauline saying something about a stowaway… hm. Interesting." Gilan shook his head in wonder. Halt gave him a look and gave a bark of laughter. "This is a first. I've never seen you so speechless before."

Clarke rubbed the back of his head with a shy grin, "So… that's why I didn't want to be found on the _Blue Whale_. I was worried my father would see me and cause a scene."

"If I had known… I wouldn't have just… I should've asked first. I'm sorry." Gilan said awkwardly.

"It's fine… This is Outsiders problem more important than anything. I'm sorry for almost leaving you."

Halt cleared his throat. "Well, now that we're all lovey dovey, back to the situation at hand. No one saw any Outsiders activity?"

"No, Halt. We didn't. We just came from Wexford straight here. According to Crowley's notes, you had left Kerryring, and we needed some directions. Seeing Abelard was a stroke of luck." Gilan grinned. "I would've never noticed you in that cloak of yours. You do realize it drags behind you? It's hilarious."

Halt glared at him.

Gilan was saved when the cleaning lady knocked on the door gently. "Sirs? Your rooms are ready." He all but ran out with a quick "Good night!", Clarke trailing behind him.

* * *

"We need a plan to deal with the Outsiders." Halt interrupted the next morning after the three men (sorry, one short man and two tall boys this time) finished a satisfying breakfast and were all nursing steaming cups of coffee in Halt's room, two with lots of honey and one piled with sugar. The boys gave Halt a slight glance of relief. Neither wanted to go into a full blown "Honey/sugar messes up the taste of coffee more" argument, but neither wanted to give into the other either.

"Right. Any ideas so far, Halt?" Clarke nodded his head towards the ranger seriously.

Halt gave him a rather withering stare. "Do you not think," He muttered slowly, "that if I already had ideas I would not have told them to you before I asked for more ideas?"

Clarke gave a nonchalant shrug. "I wouldn't know. I was just wondering when you would tell us about some lady named 'Caitilyn'. She seems important, by the way you keep repeating her name."

"What the blazes are you talking about, boy?"

"Oh, I was just getting a drink downstairs last night and I heard the word 'Caitlyn' coming from your room. Very loudly too, I might add."

"I- what? I don't talk in my sleep! What on earth are you talking about? This is ridiculous!"

Gilan stifled a giggle. "What Clarke is saying, Halt, is that you. Talk. Loudly. In. Your. Sleep. And you do, you know." Gilan held up a hand and stopped Halt before he could say anything. "Not on important missions or if we're sleeping in the wild. But I do notice you saying stuff when we're at home."

Halt's eyebrows furrowed. "I do not!" He was in adamant refusal to admit the nightmare he suffered last night.

"Yes, you do…" The two apprentices chorused.

Halt raised both his hands in mock defeat. "This is why I will _never_ take another apprentice ever again. So tell me, Clarke," Halt said with a semi-creepy voice that would send shivers up anyone's spine if they didn't know better, "What did I say last night, about Caitlyn?"

"Well, I didn't exactly stay around to hear the whole thing. It was mainly mumbles and a 'Caitlyn!' here and there. Something about poisoning? I think the poor serving girl thought you were planning someone's murder or something. I bumped into her in the hallway."

Gilan drained the last of his coffee and looked at the bottom of his mug sadly. "Shoot. Does anyone want to go get another mug of coffee with me?"

Halt raised an eyebrow (Clarke did a pretty good impression of him behind his back. Thought he wouldn't notice, but he did). "What, you can't go get some yourself? We have a battle plan to make."

Clarke snorted, "Yeah, and we're making _such_ good progress on this battle plan too. Hey Gil! Get me one too!" He called down the hallway.

"Get one for yourself you lazy clod!" Gilan entered the tavern. It was relatively empty compared to the crowd of people there for breakfast half an hour ago. Four serving girls were cleaning up after the mess left by a particularly rowdy group of strangers. He edged around a puddle of what looked suspiciously like blood (thankfully it was a small puddle) and went to the counter.

"Ah, mister Gilan, what can I do for you, young sir?"

"Hey, Noah. One, no, make that two, coffees, please. And can I have the sugar and honey with that too?"

Noah nodded quickly and hustled away, whistling tunelessly. Gilan looked around and looked for that nice serving girl, Natalie, who made an extra pot of coffee just for their table during breakfast. He wanted to thank her properly because he was too busy drinking coffee for anything more than a nod this morning. Dang, that coffee was _good_.

"Hm? Oh, Nat works at the castle after breakfast now." One of the girls replied when he asked.

Gilan held the two steaming mugs and balanced the honey and sugar precariously in his arms as he went up the stairs. He stopped right before he opened Halt's door. Two voices, Halt and Clarke, were currently in heated debate whether honey or sugar is better in coffee. Wow, these walls are not soundproof at all.

* * *

A very interesting conversation and a very happy Clarke later, they finally got down to business.

"After some snooping around," Halt said, " I have reason to believe that the Outsiders are trying to take over Hibernia piece by piece. Yes, Gilan, I said the word snooping, no need to point that out." He sent Gilan a glare.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking it. Anyways, stopping them one at village a time with only the three of us would be too slow, and King Ferris is a coward more than he is a stubborn idiot. Caitlyn is a last resort if we really don't have any other choice. I think if we can find some way to get more people to disprove 'Alseiass', we can have the people themselves eradicating it. The Outsiders are still pretty concentrated to the small cities on south-western of Clonmel, close to the borders of Dromorth. If we can stop the spread in Clonmel, where their current headquarters are, they'll probably die out in a few months."

Gilan nodded thoughtfully. "Their headquarters are here in Dun Kilty, right?"

"It's close by. Here, in Perigrath." Halt pulled out his well worn map. "It's about an hour away at a forced march."

Clarke peered over Halt's shoulder "Have you scouted it out yet?"

"Yes. Why do you think I said we needed more people? Their leader Tennyson has a ring of staunch supporters, about ten men total. I wouldn't surprised if they're in on his secret. They act as enforcers and bodyguards. The rest of the people are the hundreds of converted villagers, most likely without a place to stay after the bandits raided their town or just here to support their god. And camped in the woods nearby are the bandits, disguised as simple villagers when they're in the main camp. I reckon only the bandits and the elite guards should be a problem."

Gilan's eyes lit up like it does when he gets a relatively decent idea forming, "We can get people to infiltrate the camp as recent converts and start slowly convert them back!"

"Uh, where the heck are we going to get the people? First of all, they would have to be relatively smart. And second, why in the world would they listen to a bunch of strangers like us?" Clarke shook his head. "Unless we have someone with power, money, or really good persuasion skills to convince these people to help us, which, as of right now, we have none of those, by the way, we wouldn't be able to get anywhere anytime soon."

Halt nodded thoughtfully. "Actually… we just might have that person we need."

"You mean Caitlyn?" Gilan asked. "You still haven't told us who that is, by the way."

Halt gave a slight smile as he remembered some old memory from a long time ago."Caitlyn is certainly persuasive. She's a relatively powerful person… and money won't be an issue."

"That sounds perfect! Why are you reluctant to ask her?" Gilan didn't miss the fact that Halt had gave a very general answer to his question- that's okay, he'll talk eventually. Probably.

"Ooh, you two have history or something?" Clarke teased, much to the horror of Gilan.

Halt gave Clarke a scathing glare. If looks could kill, Clarke wouldn't exist anymore. "No." He said curtly. "She's my sister."


	9. Plan B is a Go

Plan B initiated: Gilan gets in the castle as newly hired stable boy and poses as lookout while Clarke gets in the castle as a serving boy carrying firewood for the Princess Caitlyn. Clarke slips a note that Halt has written to Caitlyn and _hopefully_ Caitlyn will meet Halt in the meeting place he put on the note. According to Halt, it's a place they often went to together as children to get away from Ferris. Clarke and Gilan were considerably more freaked out than they were the night before when they went over the plan time after time after time.

"Still, Halt. I can't believe you're related to _nobility_," Clarke shook his head and chuckled, trying to lighten up the mood as they prepared themselves.

"One more word out of either of you and I will skin you when you get back," Halt growled. He folded his note and handed it to Clarke. "Remember. Keep your head down, don't look anyone, walk quickly, as if-"

"As if I have something very important to do. I got it, Halt. Relax."

Gilan shifted uncomfortably as he covered up his bow with a spare shirt and placed it on his bag, which will stay with Halt, wherever he was going. It made sense that he had to remain inconspicuous and a giant bow would attract unwanted attention, but Gilan felt rather naked without the familiar weight of his bow and quiver of arrows. He donned his cloak (not the mottled ranger cloak, which was also safely stowed in his bag), and triple checked to make sure the knives were securely hidden, his own saxe and throwing knife in his double scabbard and Clarke's pair hidden in the saddle pack on Blaze. They decided Gilan would infiltrate as a stable boy mainly because Blaze was the closest horse they had to the majestic battle horses found in the stables. Sure, under close inspection one could see she was slightly shaggier and shorter, but that could be explained by Gilan easily.

"She's a younger horse, sir." Gilan practiced to Halt and Clarke. "Her mum's a mare from Araluen, I reckon that's why she here is shaggier."

Halt nodded slowly, "This might just get you by… wipe that silly grin off your face, Gilan. I said you _might_ pass it off. Your accent needs working on and you're holding your head too high for a lowly stable boy.

When they were finally ready, the three of them headed towards the castle. A few hundred meters away from their destination, Halt ghosted suddenly into the nearly bush. No one gave even the slightest glance. The boys looked at each other. They were on their own.

* * *

"Mi'lady Caitlyn? More letters for you this morning" Natalie called out as she knocked gently on the door.

Caitlyn looked up from her seat next to the window and answered, "Come in!" She groaned internally at as Natalie placed even more letters on her overflowing desk. _More letters of proposal, what a surprise._ Ugh, work.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, my Lady? You look a little, I beg your pardon, downcast, today, my Lady."

"Please, enough with the 'my lady' nonsense, just call me Caitlyn. And yes, a cup of coffee sounds lovely." Natalie bobbed her head and headed for the door. "Wait!" Caitlyn added quickly. The girl froze. "Thank you, Natalie. I don't know what I would do without you."

Natalie turned around and curtsied. "My pleasure, Princess." She gave a small grin and shut the door quietly behind her.

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. She sifted through the paperwork, throwing the more extravagantly over decorated envelopes over her shoulder. She guiltily thought of Natalie, who would probably insist on picking it all up for her when she returned, and quickly swept the fallen letters in the trash bin. A single folded sheet of paper fell on the floor. It was small and simple, tucked away under one of the envelopes. Not decorated, not marked except a stain on the corner. She could smell a faint hint of… coffee, maybe? She opened it.

_To: Cate_

Caitlyn cringed at the nickname. Oh, so they're starting to use personal names to woo her now? How. Dare. They. She has only allowed one person to do that, ever. And let's just say he was still punished severely for it. Caitlyn nearly crumpled the paper, but as she did, something in her distant memory clicked. Cate. Caitie Cat. Of all the names they could have chosen… she blinked back a tear. No. Now was not the time. Natalie should be back any second now. As she heard faint footsteps outside her door, Caitlyn stuffed the paper in her drawer. Rather than risking a wavering voice, she got up and opened the door herself.

The enticing smell of coffee wafted into the room as Natalie set down a pot on a silver tray and poured Caitlyn a gilded cup. "His majesty requests an audience with you whenever you're ready, Princess."

Caitlyn grimaced at her new name. Not that she didn't like or dislike it, no. It's just that no one's called her that in a long time either. Natalie took it as the wrong sign and worriedly asked "Is it too hot, Princess? I-"

"No, it's fine, Natalie. It just… Ferris hasn't called for me in a long time. I'll see what he wants." She set down her now empty cup (why are all the cups so _small_? Note to self: get a mug) and made sure she looked presentable in the mirror. Her dark brown hair was bunched up on her head in a complex and _painful_ bun. Her rather simple (for royalty, that is) blue gown had a few strands of curly hair that was quickly brushed off. Ugh, thick hair problems. Caitlyn pushed thoughts of the note to the back of her mind as Natalie followed her out the door.

Caitlyn strode into the throne room and walked through Ferris's advisors with her head held high as they parted to let her through. Actually, she had to hold her head rather high to see Ferris on his almighty wooden throne. Why did it have to be built so _tall_? She got to the front and curtsied to Ferris. "You wanted to see me, brother dear?"

"Address your king with his proper title!" One of his main advisors grunted disapprovingly.

Caitlyn whirled around and gave the man a stone cold glare. "Address your _Princess_ with her proper title, Baron Holland, if you know what's good for you."

The man huffed, obviously not believing she could carry out any type of threat.

"Peace, Caitlyn." Ferris raised his hand in a sort of a greeting gesture. "He's right, you know. Though I am your brother, I am also your king, and you should address me as such in public."

Caitlyn gritted her teeth in annoyance. Since when has _this_ been a rule? Was it just her, or did Ferris sound more like a weasel each time they met? She hid her emotions behind a sweet smile. "Very well, _King_. You summoned me?"

Ferris shifted in his throne, obviously uncomfortable with the jab. His advisors muttered to themselves again as Ferris began. "Ah, yes. My advisors tell me that ambassadors from Araluen would like an audience with me as soon as possible to discuss the small religious group known as the 'Outsiders'. They seem to think that it poses a threat to Clonmel. As you may have heard, I will be out conducting my own investigations to this matter. Dear sister, could you possibly be so kind as to receive the ambassadors and reassure them of our safety? I'm sure it will all die down soon, they always do."

Caitlyn bristled. That slimy coward. Chances are he's going to go "investigating" by sending men and going to a safehouse to hide his sorry hide. She upheld her mask of calm and nodded curtly. "Certainly, _your majesty_. Would you also like me to take care of everything else while you're gone?"

Ferris waved her off, "No, that will be unnecessary. Baron Holland will take care of the rest."

Caitlyn held back a curse. So close. Baron Holland gave her a smug glance at his seat on the bench lined around the throne room. Caitlyn sighed internally and curtsied again. "Is this all, my lord?"

"Yes, yes. You may leave now, Caitlyn," Ferris added, almost as an afterthought.

"I hope your investigations return fruitful, King," Caitlyn said and exited the throne room before anyone could chastise her for her behavior. The doors swung shut behind her with a satisfying clang.

Returning to her room, Caitlyn faced quite an awestruck Natalie. "I've never seen _anyone_ talk to the king like that," Natalie said.

Caitlyn gave her a shy grin. "You just haven't been here long enough. My guess is that you'll get used to it sooner or later. Ferris is too busy looking for potential usurpers than focus on an annoying little sister like me."

Natalie returned the smile and started busying herself organizing the letters. The two continued in companionable silence. Caitlyn poured herself a now cooled cup of coffee. "Thank you, Nat. I'll take it over from here." Caitlyn suddenly interjected as she noticed Natalie opening the drawer to place the letters. She didn't want anyone to see the mysterious note. Not yet.

Natalie noticed her mistress's abrupt tone and set the letters down, "Is everything okay, Princess?"

"Yes, yes. It's just… I have a rather particular way of sorting my notes and, though I appreciate your help, I can do it myself."

Natalie raised an eyebrow but didn't comment further. "Do you need anything else, Princess?"

"Could you… could you get me another cup of coffee?" Caitlyn shyly handed her the now empty pot (seriously, even the coffee pots were _tiny_).

"Natalie grinned, "Certainly, Princess." She went back outside.

Caitlyn breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Alone at last. She opened her drawer and sifted through until she found the note. She couldn't help but be intrigued. First of all, who in their right minds had the audacity to call her _Cate_? The handwriting seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place it…

_To: Cate_

She unfolded the paper.

* * *

_Caye,_

Caitlyn blinked once. Then twice. She scanned the bottom of the letter. No name. But only one person called her Caye…

She had been six years old. She and Halt, then ten, had scurried out of eyesight of their nanny Karel and slipped out of the castle into their hideout. It was a small clearing inside a ring of protective trees and bushes that Halt found quite by accident one day. The two children had wiggled through the small hole with ease and huddled together as they attempted to smother their giggles. Karel called their names, probably in the safety of the castle based on how quiet it was from the hideout. She was severely fear of bugs, bless her, which made this hiding spot ideal.

"Hush, she'll hear you!" Halt had whispered. Caitlyn gave him a goofy grin, her eyes shining even in the rather dim hideout.

As Karel's voice faded into the distance, both children released a pent up breath of relief and laughed together. It was some time since they had last slipped out together, and it was as fun as the first.

"Alright, Princess. We are officially free. Anything you wanna do?"

"Haaalt…" She whined. "I _told_ you not to call me that…" She grinned at her older brother, showing that she didn't really mean it. That much.

"Okay then. Caitie Cat, what would your highness like to do on this fine afternoon?"

"That's even worse. Stop it!" Caitlyn started to actually get annoyed now, and put on her pouting face, but Halt didn't notice. He was still caught up on the euphoria of actually escaping Karel. Either that or he just didn't think it was real pouting. She was a superb actress, after all. An extra slice of cake was as easy as batting an eyelash. Or, more often than not, fake crying.

"Aw c'mon, Caitie Cat. We're finally here! Stop pouting. You want to go look for magic rocks by the lake?" Halt got some sort of indication that she was upset and tried to cajole her back to good spirits by teasing.

"Halt, I'm not three anymore." She crossed her arms and sat with her back straight, a near perfect imitation of their mother. "I decree that we shall… we shall go explore the forest in search of elves!"

Halt raised an eyebrow, "Not three, huh? Well, you'll always be small to me!" Back then he didn't bother to mention the elves were probably something for three year olds, but anyways… He wrapped Caitlyn in a bear hug (she was still rather small for her age), and she shrieked in delight. "Alright, Caitie Cat, let's go find some elves!"

"I told you not to call me that!" The annoyance flared into anger as she stomped her foot on the ground.

"But Caitie Cat…" Halt could barely suppress a grin at the sight of his little sister's face.

"CALL ME THAT ONE MORE TIME." She had yelled as loudly as she could in her high pitched voice.

"Woah, calm down, Princess. I was only playing with you. Come on, I think elves could be hiding in that tree!" Halt backed off. Caitlyn could clearly tell he was trying to turn her attention away from his remark. Nevertheless, she played along. No sense in spoiling the otherwise brilliant afternoon.

She blundered to the pond, her dress making it difficult to walk at a faster pace. The crescent of lilies surrounded the water's edge, reflecting nicely into the water.

"Halt, Halt!" Caitlyn called excitedly as she cupped her hands around something small. "Look what I found!" She had picked up something small and yellow, and it buzzed in a weird way on her cupped palms. It tickled, but she refused to let it go until Halt could see what she got.

"That is a very pretty bee you got there, Caitie Cat." Halt said in a falsely bright voice. He didn't want to scare her… "Okay, now just open your hands and let it go… gently now…"

His plea fell on deaf ears as her face screwed up at the sound of Caitie Cat. "I TOLD YOU, DON'T. CALL. ME. CAITIE. CAT." She completely forgot the bee in her hand as she started to run back to the castle, leaving a rather distressed Halt stunned. This must've upset the bee as well, she thought, and all of a sudden something jabbed her quite painfully in the hand. She shrieked and fell. After what seemed like forever, Halt found her curled in a little ball, bawling her eyes out as she held her left hand close to her chest. Halt gathered her up protectively and all but sprinted back to the castle, where a semi-relieved Karel had taken her to the physician.

Although she felt bad for him, she held true to her word. For the next week, didn't talk to him. Her hand was hurting awfully and that gave her a distraction from Halt's guilty face. He clearly blamed himself, to the point where he obediently took the extra work Karel gave him as punishment (Karel found this so disturbing she had the physician take a look at him too, but he was fine).

Eight days after the incident, Caitlyn's hand wasn't hurting as much, Halt had entered her room, where she was playing with wooden horses.

"How you feeling, Caitlyn?" Halt was trying so hard not to make her mad, she forgave him.

"Oh no! Minty and Myrtle were taken captive by ugly trolls!" She giggled.

"Well, Princess, are we going to save them then?" Halt asked with a chuckle as he sat down beside her.

"Don't call me Princess," She had replied automatically, but this time with no anger behind it. She had seen Halt when he was doing his homework alone (she was excused because of her hand). He looked so sad she almost wanted to hug him. Almost.

"Okay then, what _should_ I call you?"

Caitlyn thought for a moment. "Call me… Caye."

"Alright then, Caye." Halt gave her a rare smile.

Caitlyn was surprised how well she remembered that particular week. Maybe it was because it was the first (and only) time she was ever stung by a bee. Maybe because it was the first time she had an inkling that Halt didn't have _friends_. Just her.

She continued reading, curious. Who, other than Halt, would know this? And Halt is dead, so it couldn't be him. Is this some kind of sick joke?

_I don't know what lies Ferris has been telling you, Caye, but I am not dead. He sent soldiers after me. I'm so sorry I left without saying goodbye. I escaped on a boat and ran to Araluen. I've joined and reformed a group called the Rangers there._

_I need your help._

At this point, Caitlyn's hands were shaking so much she nearly dropped the paper. She was starting to be convinced that this was actually him, but... Halt? Alive?

The sound of knocking startled her; she nearly fell over in her chair. After dusting herself off, she hid the letter and let Natalie in. Coffee is needed for this headache she was developing.

Caitlyn dismissed Natalie with a quiet thank you. She was desperate to continue reading the neat scribble on the note, and she wasn't sure who to trust. She pulled out the letter.

_You have probably heard of the term "Outsiders". The ranger commandant sent me to investigate them after they were suspected to be the reason a few girls were kidnapped from Araluen. I have traced them to Hibernia, and to Clonmel. As harmless as they might seem, be wary. They have taken Dromorth already. I believe their next target is here. The outlying towns have already been converted. The Outsiders have amassed a huge army of people, and they're not far away. Because of the lack of soldiers, I assume Ferris is ignoring this little problem. Caye, please. If you read this, meet me at the hideout tomorrow night. Wait half an hour after midnight. I know you might not believe this note, and I'm sorry I can't put more information. I promise I'll explain. Everything. Trust me on this, Princess._

Caitlyn was extremely conflicted. The more logical side of her told her not to trust every single note that came in her hands. But this was… this might be _Halt's_ note. Could it really be him? Why hasn't he been able to contact her? Why wait till now, only when there may be a disaster happening, and he needs help? After all this time… wait. Could this be one of Ferris's schemes? Perhaps he overheard about the nickname. Perhaps he told one of her "more favorable" suitors. Yes. Caitlyn squinted at the letter. The sharper angles of the y and the curve of the a looks similar to Lord Boyle's… but the t is too short. Lord Callihan, perhaps? Caitlyn shook her head. Let's not jump to conclusions. She inspected the note, reread it, studied the type of paper. The cheap paper was smooth, except for that brown spot that looked like… a coffee stain? Hmm… she sniffed the paper again. Yep, the smell of coffee was slightly stronger than before, when she sniffed it while it was folded up. It seemed really distinctive… Natalie's coffee! Of course! But why in the world do I smell honey… Hmm. Weird. Who in their right minds would put honey in coffee?

Thoughts whirling around her head, she almost didn't notice Natalie knocking on the door again. She calmed herself with deep breaths. _Everything's perfectly fine. Everything is perfectly fine. _She reminded herself as Natalie came in. The young maid had brought dinner; Caitlyn hadn't realized it was so late already.

"Hey Natalie?"

The girl turned and looked curiously at her mistress.

Caitlyn struggled to find the perfect phrasing. She didn't want to intrude on Natalie's life, or gods forbid make her suspicious of anything (even though there really was nothing really to be suspicious about). She considered dismissing Natalie for the night, but quickly rejected the idea as Natalie was looking at her patiently. "Ah… I heard you worked at the local inn?"

"The Sleeping Dragon? Yes, Princess. My da owns it. I serve breakfast in the mornings and my younger sisters take over while I'm at work here." Natalie beamed with pride: her father's inn was very well known.

"Have you served coffee... with honey… over the past week or so?" Caitlyn stumbled over the phrasing the best she could. Not very discreet, she sighed silently. Natalie gave her a queer look, making Caitlyn cringe inwardly at the bluntness and general _weirdness _of her question. "It's just... well. There's this man…"

Natalie giggled, her eyes widening in surprise, "Oh! Well, I'm not sure, but there was this particular man who's been staying the inn for… five days now, I believe? He left this morning along with the handsome… Oh." Natalie blushed fiercely, "He left with two boys thing morning."

Caitlyn nodded, "Thank you, Natalie." Great. Now Nat will think she has feelings for the coffee and honey man. Perfect.

"Anything else, my lady?"

"I told you, call me Caitlyn." Caitlyn sighed quietly. Old habits do die hard. "No, I'm fine, thank you. Goodnight!" She gave a small wave as her door clicked shut. Now what?


	10. Sneaking Out to Meet Someone

Caitlyn let out a small groan of annoyance as one of the stitchings of her sleeves tore off. She vehemently cursed the current fashion statement- a full length gown with way too many layers with ridiculous draping sleeves that got caught on literally everything, whether it be food, jewelry, or door handles.

Forget it. Tunic and trousers it is.

As a lady of her position, her maids and seamstress balked at the idea of her even owning a pair of trousers and a tunic. Caitlyn had to make do with the ones she secretly had the town seamstress make all those years ago. Sure, she was not much taller than she was back then, but apparently she was a _lot_ thinner. Caitlyn admired herself in the mirror one last time. Her hastily resized tunic was loose enough to hide her gender should she encounter anyone. Who know sewing classes with Karen could be so useful?

Caitlyn donned her cloak she had Natalie buy for her (a gift for a friend, she claimed). She grinned at the way the cowl concealed her face. It made her look mysterious. Step one: get dressed. Check.

Step two: How the heck does she get out of here.

* * *

"You think she'll really come?" A very nervous Clarke asked as he paced back and forth next to the hole in the densely grown bush.

"Come on, she's not _your_ sister. Why so worried?" Gilan chuckled. He had decided to practice some silent movement while they waited, and he snuck up behind Clarke, making the latter person jump. Clarke whacked him on the shoulder.

"The purpose of 'silent' movement is to be 'silent', is it not?" Halt muttered dryly as he materialized beside him, causing both apprentices to jump. Gilan had to steady Clarke before he could fall in the bush.

"Yeah, but startling the person you sneak up on gives a moment of confusion, which can be used to your advantage." Gilan retorted.

"Either that or they panic and strike out at you…" Clarke added.

"Who's side are you on?"

"Well…"

"Besides, Halt, you also talked when you were ghosting around."Gilan crossed his arms with a smile of triumph.

"I, however, was not _practicing_. I purposefully revealed myself."

Gilan rolled his eyes. He sat down on a fallen log and started checking to make sure all his arrows were in perfect condition, while also actively ignoring Halt and Clarke. While he was adjusting the fletching on one of the arrows, he felt a sense of unease that something- or someone- was watching him. He continued fixing the fletching as he tried to determine where that someone is. Gilan tried to put on a face like Halt's serious and unafraid expression. _Don't panic don't panic don't panic._ His ears picked up the slight rustling of what sounded a little like footsteps. He got up and walked away from the sound a little, and ghosted behind a nearby tree. His bow and arrow was trained on a patch of grass just behind where he had been sitting. The tall grass shook a little as there was a little movement. Gilan edged closer. Slowly… slowly…

A huge rabbit kicked up dirt and grass as it bounded off into the forest. Gilan breathed a sigh of relief. Wow, he was getting jumpy. He missed Blaze, who would have probably told him it was a rabbit and laughed at his panicked face. However, Halt had hid them farther away next to the other side of the lake, as the three horses were significantly harder to hide this close to the castle than three people. They would be able to get here relatively quickly if anyone got in trouble, but no one would be likely to accidentally find them.

Clarke came up behind Gilan, "Who's nervous now, huh?" Both boys laughed before Gilan punched him on the shoulder.

* * *

Caitlyn has never been more thankful she convinced Ferris to give her the suit with the balcony a floor above the gardens. Not only is it relatively peaceful, it is secluded from the noisier parts of the castle, meaning there are less guards here. A small wind rustled the leaves of the graceful trees grown in two straight lines outside, forming an arch of leaves and branches. Caitlyn breathed in the night air and waited. For the next half hour , she watched the two guards patrolling. Shifts were about two hours for each guard, and one of them changes every hour while the other stays for the second hour of his shift. This means one of them is probably slightly more alert than the other. They took turns walking back and forth twice around the garden walls and back to their little station while their partner watched on. This was mainly for not falling asleep, but Caitlyn doubted she could take them out while they were apart, no matter how fatigued they were. Not that it was a good idea anyways. She estimated the time. She has approximately one hour to figure out a way to get to Halt- or to whoever wrote the letter.

She decided to try something completely mental and crazy, but it might work. Hopefully. Caitlyn bit her tongue in concentration as she knotted some sheets together. The long makeshift lasso should be enough to bear her weight down when one of the guards starts his second round around the garden and allow herself to climb back up when needed. She would have to climb down as quickly as possible, hide the rope behind the bushes under her window, and sneak out into the open for a few seconds. When she gets to the trees, she'll climb up and go through the branches; hopefully the wind will be strong enough to conceal her movements. After that she'll just climb over the gate, which for some reason was shorter than the wall around it. And voila, one escaped princess.

_Why did I ever think this was going to work?_ Caitlyn asked herself. The easy part was over. She had climbed down with only a slightly bruised elbow (_Why the heck were castle walls so uneven?)_. The trees had bore her weight, mostly. She still had to stay still for an excruciating amount of minutes when one of the guards seemed to hear something (they weren't _completely_ incompetent). Now she had to climb the gate.

The concept of it seemed really easy. Grab the rail, hoist yourself up, go over it, land like a cat. However, she hadn't accounted for how high up the rail was. Even though the gate was shorter than the wall, it was still a substantial height. She would waste precious seconds pulling herself up using the slightly uneven bricks of the wall around the gate, in full view of the guards. She considered jumping from the closest tree. Nope. Definitely a nope. Even if she could jump more than ten meters. Still nope.

Voices came across the courtyard as one of the guards greeted his replacement. Caitlyn stiffened in fear.

Wait. This is her last chance! The new guard would be more or less extra alert. She streaked across the path between the trees and the wall and started climbing. Her nails were getting scraped, and she could feel her arms trembling under her full weight. She dug her fingers in a little more on one of the slightly larger cracks and heaved. She was over! But then she fell rather ungracefully off the other side. Landing on bushes and grass was not very comfortable.

Caitlyn thought of how she and Halt had often sneaked out using the little hole in the wall. No one knew about it until one day Caitlyn was playing in the garden when she accidentally slipped and fell in the azaleas. They had used it often, emerging unseen because of the way the wall camouflages it on the outside. Now she was too big to fit through it. Which brings up another problem. The letter said Halt would meet her at their hideout. Would he be in it? How? How would she fit through the opening? What would she _say_ to him? _Oh hello, I'm glad you're not dead, how've you been?_ or _HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE HALT YOU BETTER TELL ME EVERYTHING BEFORE I KILL YOU_.

The latter option sounded pretty appealing right now.

She started towards the woods.

* * *

The three rangers are all up and pacing now. Gilan and Clarke both look at Halt from time to time. It was getting close to the planned meeting time. They tried to figure out how Halt was feeling. His _sister_ thought he was dead for _years_. What would she say? What would Halt say? Halt still showed no sign of nervousness. All he did was raise an eyebrow and grunt one or two word replies whenever Gilan or Clarke asked him something.

Gilan had wandered slightly farther than he had before. He watched the calm ripples in the lake as insects landed and took off. Suddenly he felt the uneasy sense again. Might be just another rabbit. Or even the same rabbit. Even so, the apprentice loosened his sword from his scabbard. There was a small crunch and Gilan turned around.

"Drop the sword." A menacing voice said. A knife was held to the side of his neck. Gilan tried to push the person away, but she held on tighter. "I said. Drop. It."

Gilan didn't want to hurt Caitlyn, but it was obvious she was capable of hurting him without a second thought. He lowered his sword. Gilan opened his mouth to talk.

"_I_ will be doing the talking here. You will answer _my _questions, after I ask. Understand?" Caitlyn shook the knife threateningly. She had no intention of using it, as she noticed how the boy had complied. She knew by the way he held his sword that he was well trained, and he could've probably disarmed her in less than a second. "Who are you?" Caitlyn started, "And why did you write me that letter?"

Gilan took a breath, "My name is Gilan Davidson. And I didn't write the letter. Halt did." He noticed Caitlyn flinched a little at Halt's name. "He's-"

"Nuh uh. I'm talking, remember?" Caitlyn said. "You know Halt?"

Gilan nodded "He's my mentor," He said. "And he's also right behind you."


	11. At Long Last

Caitlyn felt her breath hitch involuntarily. She turned around slowly, careful to keep the knife up in case this is a distraction. Her eyes scanned left, then right as she tries to pick out anything in the darkness.

All of a sudden, a patch of leaves glides out of the shadows and into the more or less brighter moonlight.

Caitlyn screamed as she backed away quickly. Her heart pounded as she held her knife defensively.

The leave shadow thing looked at her with intense, dark eyes, the only part of it she could see clearly. A hand slowly pulled back the hood of the weird cloak, revealing the short, grizzled man with a greying beard. He didn't move, just stood there silently like a predator observing prey. After the tense thirty second staring contest, Caitlyn got over her initial surprise.

She looked at the man closer. He was short. Really short. The Halt she remembered was… vertically challenged, but that was because he hadn't hit his full growing spurt yet. Caitlyn's head swam as she looked at the man's strange clothes. The motley colored cloak shifted, making him blend in to his surroundings rather effectively. She realized that the boy was dressed similarly, apart from his now empty sword scabbard.

The man just kept staring at her. Analyzing her. It was honestly getting creepy now.

"Hey! Halt!", an unfamiliar voice called out from behind the man. All three pairs of eyes focused on the tall, lanky boy with messy blond hair making his way over to them, "Oh, you must be Caitlyn!" the second boy suddenly noticed all of them staring. "Um... Is everything okay?"

Halt gave him a small glare, not unnoticed by Caitlyn. This was the first emotion she had seen from the second she saw him. The scathing glare had a deeply hidden sense of exasperation and annoyance, but it was clear he at least tolerated or liked the boy. How many times had she seen Halt do that to her?

She slowly lowered her knife completely (not that she would ever admit it, but her arms were getting a bit tired from holding it).

"Where did you even hide that?" Gilan nodded his head at her knife. Caitlyn turned to glare at him…

"Caitlyn?" a deep voice said softly. Caitlyn froze.

Something inside of her broke; a flood of mixed feelings swirled inside. "HALT O'CARRICK, WHERE THE BLAZES HAVE YOU BEEN?!" Tears were now streaming down her cheeks as she stormed closer and closer to him.

Fifteen meters.

Ten meters.

_Five meters._

She suddenly felt herself wrapped in a hug, warm and firm and familiar. All the things she was prepared to yell at her lost brother were lost as she just stood there, limp. Her _brother_ was back. "Halt…"

"I missed you." She heard him mumble. The two stood there, in the darkness, just holding onto each other as if the other might disappear the next second. Gilan and Clarke stood back quietly.

Halt felt himself pushed back by Caitlyn's hands. Her eyes were still shining, but there seemed something else in there, too. Halt wondered what it was for a brief moment before he felt a sharp pain on his face.

Oh.

"I thought you were _dead_." Caitlyn seethed venomously as she drew back her hand for another slap. Halt didn't move to stop her as she slapped him again, harder. "How… You… you better explain. Now. _Every. Last. Detail._"

Caitlyn stopped when she saw Gilan and the other boy staring at her, jaws hanging wide open.

"Halt, that's your sister?" Gilan was laughing so hard he was nearly rolling on the ground. "She's _amazing_!"

The second boy had a smirk on his face, "Yeah. No wonder you turned out like you did."

Halt gave them another glare- he seemed to do that to them a lot, apparently,- because they just ignored them and kept on smiling. "One more word and I'll skin the both of you."

"Sure. I seem to recall you saying that to us two days ago." the boy said smugly. He then paled quickly as he noticed Halt's expression.

Caitlyn couldn't help herself; she let out a small snort of laughter.

"I see Karel's lessons have gone nowhere, Princess." Halt said with a small smile.

(Gilan gasped, "Did you see that? Halt smiled! He actually smiled!")

"Princess?" the other boy spoke up in a rather strangled voice.

Caitlyn liked his expression of awe, "Yeah. Princess Caitlin Eveleen O'Carrick, pleasure to meet you." She held her her hand.

"Your highness," Clarke bowed. "My name is Clarke. It is an honor."

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. "You didn't tell them, Halt?"

"There was no reason for them to get worked up." Halt said innocently. Caitlyn smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

"Woah woah woah wait." Gilan held up a hand. "If you're the princess… does that make Halt a _prince_?"

Clarke's eyes widened further, though his reaction to Halt being royalty was vastly different from his reaction to Caitlyn.

Caitlyn grinned at Halt's annoyed expression as the two boys laughed about "Prince Halt". "That's _Crown_ _Prince_ Halt." She whispered teasingly.

"Don't even _think _about telling them." Halt muttered.

* * *

Halt suggested they go farther away from the castle before the racket they're causing raises any alarms.

Gilan was glad to be reunited with Blaze. She bobbed her head up and down in greeting and nudged Gilan's hand. "I missed you too." He chuckled, running a hand down her neck. Blaze snorted, then started nudging his pockets. "Oh. No, I don't have any apples, and you've had plenty already. Hush."

_You're no fun._

Caitlyn looked at the exchange with a smile. "Passing on your bad habits, I see."

"This is actually a very good skill to have. It bonds you with your horse," Halt ran a hand over Abelard's flank, "and it is useful if you're in a bad situation."

"I meant overfeeding your horse with apples."

"I don't encourage that."

Caitlyn eyed the apple shaped lump in his saddle bag, "Hmm. Sure... Speaking of bad situations... you said you are a Ranger. What exactly do you do?"

Clarke grabbed Gilan's cloak and all but dragged him away.

"What?" Gilan protested.

"They haven't seen each other in _years_. Let's give them some time. Besides, we know everything already, right?"

"Right." Gilan contented, still slightly miffed. Judging that they were far away enough from any other people, Clarke started a small fire. The two boys grabbed the pots and pans and cooked dinner. Gilan's stomach grumbled. In all this excitement, they skipped the most important meal of the day- all of them. Clarke excused himself, leaving Gilan to tend to the still growing fire. He came back a few minutes later, two wood pigeons in hand.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Clarke asked Gilan as they sat plucking the pigeons.

"I don't know, maybe everything that's happened over the past years?" He looked at Halt's sister. She was very much like him, Gilan reflected. Short stature, dark brown hair, intense eyes. Not only that, the way they carry themselves, the quiet confidence of, well, nobility , or people with power.

Gilan saw her expression shift from horrified, to calm, to surprised and worried as Halt quietly talked to her. He looked away as she noticed him looking- no. She was just looking at the fire they built. She gestured towards him and Clarke and laughed, though Gilan couldn't physically hear it. Halt shook his head and made a reply. Caitlyn's expression was one of teasing disbelief and she raised an eyebrow that could potentially rival Halt's.

Huh. Must be a family trait.

Clarke wasn't sure what to think of all this new information he got today. _Halt_ was a _prince. _Halt was _the _prince. He met _Princess Caitlyn_. Though Clarke spent most of his life either running or in Araluen, he still knew about her and King Ferris. He groaned inwardly at his actions earlier. Had he really _bowed_ to her? Was he supposed to do that? She seems pretty nice, not like the pompous airhead he imagined her to be. _Great first impression, you idiot._

* * *

Caitlyn rose up and stretched, trying to absorb everything Halt has told her. The entire story seemed ludicrous, but so was the idea that he was alive, which he clearly is. Halt's uncanny similarities with Ferris reminded her of what is could have been, and she sighed sadly.

Halt had given her an undoubtedly run down version of the past few years of his life. Pritchard, Crowley, reformed the ranger corps, Abelard, battle, battle, famous, Gilan, Gilan, Gilan, Gathering, Clarke, Outsiders. Outsiders. Terror plots. Help?

She had missed him so much.

Looking for something to calm herself before she started officially freaking out, she excused herself and wandered towards the horses. They were a queer little bunch, except maybe the brown and black bay mare, Blaze. Halt said she was Gilan's horse, and she was not surprised. They both seemed good natured and, well, they're both the tallest. Lexa was the other boy- Clarke's- horse. The barrel shaped pony was like a miniature version of Halt's horse, Abelard. Both were dappled gray, except Lexa had white stockings on two hooves.

Caitlyn had to admit, Abelard was her favorite. The mild tempered pony was patient and intelligent. Being Halt's horse may have made her a little biased, but just a little.

"Hey," she whispered softly as they raised their heads curiously.

_She seems nice. _Blaze commented.

_Yep. _Lexa agreed. _She also looks pretty smart, for royalty. Like Halt. By the way, Abe, did you know Halt was the prince?_

Abelard bobbed his head but didn't quite answer as Caitlyn sneaked the apple from his saddle, cut it in three pieces, and fed each of them.

_Mmm. _Blaze crunched her treat blissfully and nosed Caitlyn in thanks. _I approve of this human._

The princess smiled, stroked Abelard's nose, and headed towards the campfire, where Halt, Clarke and Gilan were making what seems to be a very delicious dinner. The smell of stew and coffee filled the area, making Caitlyn's stomach grumble.

"Alright, boys." She announced. "I'm in."

* * *

Nursing mugs of coffee Gilan had made, the four people gathered around the fire. The shadows danced around the forest, creating a suitable mood for plot planning.

"Our main problem is the lack of information. Scouting the camp does no good, no one really knows anything except for the men in the command tent. The only way is if we get an insider to pass on overheard information." Halt said quietly. His expression was dark and grim, reflecting the feelings of everyone in the group.

"Insiders…" Gilan's mind worked quickly. Insiders. "Halt, I've been thinking… If Clarke and I were to-"

"You're an appre- " Halt paused, ready to say his usual retort when he figured out where Gilan was going with his idea. "No, " Halt immediately cut him off as the boy drew breath. "We are not risking the two of you on some hairbrained mission, especially with your lack of experience. "

"But it makes sense! They've been talking Araluen people, right? The kidnappings that you investigated. we can get in and-"

"I said NO!" Halt stood up abruptly. Gilan shrank back. He had never seen Halt seem so mad before.

"Wait. Kidnappings?" Clarke tried to change the subject slightly. "Why would they kidnap Araluen people? They're recruiting people all over Hibernia!"

Caitlyn raised a hand, "Halt said that they might be using Clonmel as a stepping stone to all of Hibernia, then Araluen. Perhaps they... could they be using children as bargaining chips for their parents… or…" she hesitated and said quietly. "Actually, no one would suspect children. Would they be above using children for their cause?"

At this point, Halt had sat back down, face devoid of emotion and deep in thought. "Another reason Gilan should not go. He is too old to be one of the kidnapped. Also, they are all girls, which he is obviously not."

"Say… say that we do get someone in. Might be me, might be someone else, but if we get in, how would we get information out?" Gilan asked slowly. Silence took over the campsite.

"Halt… maybe this isn't such a bad idea after all." Caitlyn suggested hesitantly. She put a hand of his shoulder before he could protest. "We need information, and we might have a way in. What if we can send Gilan and Clarke in, because like I said, no one would… suspect children. They would be safe, one of them could infiltrate to higher ranks, the other could pass information to us."

"I should go. I have more experience. They could stay with you and…"

"Halt, what would they say if a random man, with no identifying dialect and dressed like you are, went up to them and said 'I believe you, let me join' and all of a sudden things go wrong? There is no scenario where this would work." Clarke argued. "Besides, we would be completely safe. We would mingle in with the other people. It's not as if anyone would recognize us or anything."

"Wait. What would _we_ be doing then, while they infiltrated?" Caitlyn asked.

"Hold on. We haven't decided anyth-" Halt paused. Dammit. Why did their logic make so much sense? He sighed in frustration."Very well. If. If you go. Caitlyn, you would have to go back to the castle. Find who might be with the Outsiders. I will be watching for Ferris. We send notes every other night. In theory, once we get enough information, we get back together and plan the next step."

"Watching Ferris. Halt?" Gilan asked. "If someone wants the throne… would he need to kill the entire royal family?" He hesitated. "So… you could be closer to Caitlyn and it would be easier for us to reach you if we just passed letters to Caitlyn and she shared with you."

Halt's heart sank at Caitlyn's small nod of agreement.

"Get some sleep," He muttered after a while. "We… we discuss this tomorrow. I will take first watch."

"Goodnight, brother dear." Caitlyn whispered softly as she gave him one last hug before heading back towards the castle.


	12. Infiltration Holds a Nasty Surprise

The Outsiders camp was relatively easy to find. Gilan shrugged his worn gray cloak closer to his body as he finally contemplated what he had just signed up for. He missed his longbow, his saxe, his sword, and most of all, Halt. His mind raced as he came up with scenario after scenario of how they may fail.

This was madness.

He looked at Clarke, who had a face of set determination. Gilan briefly wondered how he was able to keep such a calm exterior. He recalled Halt's lesson from what seemed like forever ago. Gilan closed his eyes briefly and breathed in.

Out.

In.

Out.

"What do you think you're doing?" A rough voice asked from behind.

"Sorry, sir. We were looking for our father. He is in the camp somewhere. We were out gathering wood when we were called back in. I do not know who called." Clarke quickly said.

The man looked at them suspiciously. "I do not see any wood on you."

"Ah. We were going to go get the wood. We were called before we actually got it."

"You are already in the woods."

"We hadn't started cutting yet."

"You have no ax."

"We use our knives."

The man snorted. It was quite possible the two boys were stretching it a little too far. "Tell me the truth and I might consider not cutting out your tongues." He noted in satisfaction that the two boys paled in fear.

"We-we weren't cutting wood. We… we were looking for our Da because we wandered out. We got separated after a hunting raid. Praise Alseiass we found you. Can… can you take us back to camp?" Gilan asked.

The man shrugged. Sounds more likely than their first story. They seem pretty innocent enough. He grunted and pointed in the direction of the camp. Clarke sent Gilan a small nod and a smile. Things seemed to be going okay so far.

* * *

Okay is not a good word to describe their situation.

"Ready, fight!" Gilan swung the unbalanced sword he was given. This whole thing was crazy. Making a group of people fight amongst each other is not a good idea. He circled the six foot giant that was his opponent. Clarke had gotten out the first few rounds, which Gilan was both thankful and scared for. He dared not lose intentionally; this was an opportunity to get to higher ranks. The six foot man snarled and swung a clumsy overhead cut, which Gilan parried with ease. It was unclear how this man got this far, as his sword fighting skills were less than savory. Perhaps this is why they recruit bandits like this.

They must be getting very desperate.

Gilan set an attack of his own, his blade darting like a silver snake. He was careful not to kill the man, as that would result in his immediate disqualification and also death, but small cuts started appearing on the man's body, little streams of red oozing out. An underhand cut unbalanced the giant man, who toppled over. Gilan held his sword to the man's chin.

"Yield."

Clarke clapped Gilan on the back as he took a break. "Are you alright?" He whispered urgently. Gilan nodded, still catching his breath.

"Those are… very… bad swords." He managed to chuckle out.

Clarke smiled, "Not quite what I had in mind when I said we infiltrate."

When they got to the camp, they were welcomed by the people without question. There were some talk of Alseiass, but people mainly talked of their lives, farms, family. That was before Clarke was stopped by a bandit leader. More accurately, the leader grabbed Clarke by the arm and asked, "How old are you, boy?"

"Sixteen, sir." Clarke lied. He didn't want to be sent to his "father", which of course would cause some problems.

"Come with me."

"What about my brother?"

"What about him, boy?"

The bandit leader then saw Gilan and took him too. The boys were lead to the Ring, where they were paired with opponents.

The stink of sweaty men filled the Ring as more people fought. The sandy floor was littered with glittering red droplets. Flimsy tarp stretched overhead, providing some shelter from the sun and cold wind. Their breaths began to steam as a late fall chill set in.

"Congratulations, boy. You are part of my group." The bandit leader, Jenkins, shook Gilan's hand.

All Gilan could do was nod and say a quiet, "Thank you, sir."

* * *

"O'Brien!" Jenkins called. The tall blond man turned and greeted his leader with a slight salute.

"Yes, sir."

"We have some new recruits we need to break in before we get to business." Jenkins muttered and walked away.

O'Brien grinned and nodded.

"Alright, you mewling pansycakes!" O'Brien shouted. "We have a lot of work to do, so shut your traps and listen up!"

Gilan was reminded of battleschool and McNiel. Loud, abrupt, straight to the point, he thought with a pang of homesickness.

He studied O'Brien. For some reason, the man looked really familiar. He was tall and lanky, with strong cheekbones and long blond hair. His green eyes were sharp and calculating. His posture suggested he was used to being in charge of people, and his deep voice carried over the noise of the men.

O'Brien slowly walked down the line of men. It was a disgustingly ragtag group of people, some cocky, some stupid looking, some who look like they would rather be anywhere else but here. His nose wrinkled at a particularly scrawny man. What on earth does Jenkins expect him to do with this group? He continued.

About halfway down the line, he stopped in front of a young man. The man stood up erect, back straight. He was a full head taller than O'Brien himself. He had the bearings of a trained soldier and he carried his sword with ease. O'Brien nodded in satisfaction. Now this he could work with. "What is your name, son?"

"Dorian, sir." The youth replied.

O'Brien raised an eyebrow at that. "Huh. Interesting name. We'll make a man out of you yet."

Dorian nodded once. "Yes sir."

Gilan breathed a small sigh of relief when O'Brien continued walking down the line of men. He was surprised no one could hear his pounding heart as he struggled to still his shaking hand.

He suddenly knew why O'Brien was so familiar.

And he prayed fervently that the man never recognizes him.

* * *

Crowley rubbed his red rimmed eyes as he searched for his dwindling supply of coffee beans. Night had fallen and he was getting nowhere. He thought guiltily of Jared, who may be out there in the cold someplace, but there was nothing that could be done.

He found his bag and rummaged around. Oh. No. Nononono.

He was out of coffee.

_Well, at least this gives me an excuse to get back to the castle. _He shrugged. Oh, wait. Paperwork, though. Crowley briefly weighed the importance of coffee versus paperwork.

Sure, Russell would kill him if he figured out Crowley left for coffee… he shrugged philosophically. _It's not as if I could find anything tonight, _he reasoned to himself. _The moon is gone, and it is too cloudy for starlight._

He stretched and went back to his small camp. Cropper, who had been waiting patiently the past few days, whinnied a hello and tossed his mane.

_This is the best idea you've had all week._ Cropper nudged Crowley's shoulder as the ranger commandant saddled him up. _But also the worst._

"How did you - Never mind. Russell is probably going to be furious... Come on, think of this as a break or something."

_You're just saying that to make yourself feel better._

Crowley briefly considered a retort but shook his head. That horse could raise an eyebrow like no other. "Halt has been a bad influence on you." He decided.

_You're just jealous._

"Crowley! You're back! You look dead on your feet!" Pauline greeted the exhausted ranger. She was not really surprised at the late hour, given she had known him and Halt for years.

"Hullo, Pauline, " Crowley managed to give her a smile. "Thank you for taking care of business while I was gone." He was glad he had informed King Duncan he was staying at Redmont for longer than expected. A chance to see Pauline and get some of the best coffee in the world was a welcome break. Most of his more important paperwork was sent to him, to his slight disappointment, but he could manage.

Pauline returned the smile, "You are always welcome. By the way, there is a letter from Halt to you. I left it on the top of your desk."

"Halt? How long has it been there?"

"It arrived by pigeon early this morning. I wonder what he and Gilan are doing…" She mused.

Crowley grinned. "Knowing Halt, probably something dangerous." The two laughed quietly.

"I'll send a stable boy for Cropper. Come, you should get some sleep."

Crowley stopped her with a shake of his head."I will take care of him. Besides, I will be leaving soon. I'm just getting something and hopefully find some detail I missed."

Pauline pursed her lips. "Jared is still missing, isn't he?"

Crowley offered a small nod and lead Cropper to the stables.

Back in his guest room in Redmont Castle, Crowley sighed as he saw the organized chaos on his desk. Who knew being commandant required this much paper? Most were probably reports of events by various Rangers; Crowley promised himself he would get to them eventually. He sipped a mug of- what else- coffee as he found the letter on top of the pile, like Pauline said.

"Contacted Caitlyn… Have a plan… Wait. What?! GILAN AND-" Crowley choked on his coffee as he skimmed the little letter.

_Gilan and Clarke are infiltrating the camp._

What were they _thinking_?

He reread the entire letter, hoping there was some indication that they had a better plan than this hare-brained idea.

Nope.

None at all.

This is why he didn't want an apprentice anymore.

* * *

Gilan crouched in the bush, heart racing from the adrenaline rush as his fellow bandits waited for Jenkins to give the order. This was his first "rush" as they called it, and he didn't know what to do. He was put on the real rush; the "better actors" (the ones who actually look like filthy bandits) had already been there a few days before. His orders are simple: get in, break stuff, get out. They didn't want him on the intimidation team, since he is young and also rather good looking, if he said so himself. Gilan looked around to see his fellow team members all tense and silent. He missed Clarke, who had to stay behind at the camp. Apparently these guys had no use for archers, just buff men.

Gilan had no intention of really hurting any of these poor villagers. His mind scrambled for ways to act like he was without raising any suspicion, but so far the best he could come up with is to slip off in the shadows and come back when they regroup. This is a really bad idea, since he was a newbie and they would probably keep an extra close eye on him…

"CHARGE!" Jenkins cried as he rushed around the concealing trees into plain sight of the villagers. That was the signal. Gilan sprang up and started to follow. What he didn't expect was to find a small hail of arrows sprouting from the villagers from a handful of terrified boys, no older than himself. They were probably trying to hold them back as the men get more heftier weapons such as axes and shovels. Jenkins was the only one struck, an arrow protruding out of his upper right arm. He let out a groan and fell back, letting O'Brien take over as second in command. The poor boys' eyes filled with indescribable terror as they struggled to reload their bows. Gilan had to avert his eyes as one was struck down by O'Brien's flashing sword. This made the other boys shout out in horror as they ran off.

Technically they were not supposed to kill, just scare and maybe ransack some houses, but O'Brien could (and would) probably claim self defense. Gilan swallowed back bile as he stepped around the crimson pool. He tried and failed to ignore the boy's open eyes and the spreading stain on his shirt. He was younger than Gilan had first thought, maybe only twelve years old. Gilan squeezed his eyes shut for a second and charged after O'Brien.

* * *

Clarke wandered aimlessly around the camp, socializing with various groups of people. He thought guiltily of Gilan, who was sent on the second raid of the week. Clarke was scheduled for a town called Limeridge next week. He was instructed not to reveal he was accepted, as people were usually closed-mouthed when it came to bandits. Good looking teenage boys, however, were a whole separate story. His job was to make sure no one was talking behind the Outsiders backs, which was so ironic he nearly chuckled out loud.

"A bow, eh? Not what I would've thought for a boy like you." A group of boys circled around him, waving their swords around lazily. Clarke had to resist the urge to place a hand on his concealed throwing knife. It was times like these he really missed the comfort of his saxe, but Halt had deemed them too out of place. Along with his bow. His cloak. And Lexa. Really, Halt was just taking the fun out of life.

"Yes, I use the longbow." He said patiently.

The boys sniggered again and appeared to size him up. "With arms like those? I would've thought you barely have the strength to fling a sling, much less a bow."

One particular boy, the leader, probably, walked too close for comfort to Clarke. His breath stinking of ale, he got into Clarke's face. "You know what? I think that I. Don't. Believe. You."

"Look, I don't want any trouble. I shoot arrows, big deal. Can you please move?" Clarke said warily.

"I think not." The boy sneered. "I think we should do you a huge favor and teach you how to fight like a man."

Oh, great. They had seen his performance in the Ring.

"I'm really not interested, thank you very much for the offer."

"Oh, I wasn't offering." The leader grinned as the other boys closed in.


	13. Caught

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" Jenkins roared at a group of boys. Clarke stood to the side with his head high, sporting a shallow cut on his forehead. He lowered his gaze a little only when Jenkins turned his glare solely on him. Clarke glanced at the other boys, all part of the little cult who tried to teach him to "be a man", as they phrased it.

"It was nothing, sir." Clarke heard the leader boy say.

"NOTHING? I'LL TELL YOU THE MEANING OF NOTHING, SON. NOTHING IS NO TROUBLE AT ALL, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NO USELESS FIGHTING BETWEEN MY TROOPS."

"We-we were trying to teach him how to wield a sword properly after watching his pathetic attempt in the Ring, sir." The leader boy blubbered. Clarke felt a very brief moment of satisfaction before Jenkins grabbed his attention again.

"Pathetic? He was doing better than you were, you sniveling brat. What does that say about you, eh?"Jenkins shook his head. "Teaching is O'Brien's job. Since you were so kind as to assist him, how 'bout this: you, and your boys here, get to assist every single man O'Brien has to teach. If they want water, you get it. If they need a new sword, you get it. If they want _your_ sword, you give it. How does that sound?" He grinned menacingly, meaning they had no say in it whatsoever.

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir." They meekly chorused before his terrifying glare sent them scrambling, as respectfully as they could, of course, out of his tent.

"And you." Jenkins turned on Clarke, only to find the boy stood frozen in place. He paused, "What's wrong with you?"

With seemingly great difficulty, Clarke shook off his stupor, "Yes, sir? Nothing, sir."

Jenkins narrowed his eyes, but the boy Clarke had put on a serious face, which was nearly impossible to read. So. He's hiding something… "I trust you will not run into anymore trouble while you're here? Here's some advice: don't stick your nose in other people's business, don't be too noticeable, and most of all, don't be intimidated or look intimidated."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Clarke imitated the salute he saw Gilan do before he left.

Jenkins grunted in amusement. At least this boy had manners. He sat down heavily on his chair and rested his head on his palms. When Tennyson asked him to assist these stupid "Outsiders", he had not anticipated idiotic boys and dull raids. He was here for the money, not for this made up religious junk. He winced as the bandage on his arm shifted. Dammit. It just had to be his sword arm. Now, Jenkins realized with a dull grimace, he had to rely nearly fully on O'Brien. He had picked up the man from the wharf in Wexford. A skilled persuader, a natural leader, Jenkins trusted him about as far as he could throw him. Number one rule of bandits. Don't trust anyone. O'Brien had proven his worth as a warrior, however, and Jenkins had no choice but to put him on recruiting duty, much to the men's approval. Jenkins hoped O'Brien wouldn't use this opportunity to overthrow him. Even though it was "discouraged", they all abide by the laws of nature: strongest man on top.

Deep in thought, Jenkins was slightly startled when a voice coughed to get his attention. O'Brien was standing at the flap of the tent. Jenkins waved him in.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Who was that boy?" O'Brien asked as he entered.

Jenkins hesitated. He had never asked the boy for his name, but he really didn't want to let O'Brien know he didn't know something. He chose the most normal and random name he could think of. "Sean, I believe."

O'Brien carefully hid the flash of emotion on his face, but not before Jenkins noticed it. Was that… confusion? Relief? "I would like to report that the raid was a success and also that the new kid, Dorian, performed exceptionally well. He did as he was told and stayed out of the way."

Jenkins nodded. He knew talent and skill when he saw it. "Let's hope his brother is the same, eh?"

"His brother?" O'Brien looked curiously at him.

"Sean. The boy who went out a few minutes ago."

"Ah. Funny, they don't look alike, do they?"

Jenkins wondered at that. Sure, they were both tall and lanky, but that's about where the similarities end. "Maybe they're wards. That's not uncommon."

O'Brien shrugged. "Perhaps." He gave an informal salute, touching two fingers to the forehead before leaving.

O'Brien weaved through the tent lines before entering his own tent. Something felt wrong. He was sure he had seen this _Sean_ before. Not many people had blond hair and green eyes around here. _Like me_. He thought. He mentally put Dorian and Sean side by side. Yeah, no similarities there. But yet…

Jenkins rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sprang up quickly as the opening of his tent was ripped open. "Gods almighty!" He cursed. " What's going on here?!"

O'Brien panted heavily; it was obvious he had ran here quickly. "The… the boys." He gasped. "I… I know them. They were these… these rangers on my ship from Araluen!"

* * *

"They're fine." Caitlyn watched as her brother paced around. To any other person, Halt would have appeared calm and even slightly bored as he circled her room. However, she knew exactly what was on his mind, as it was also on hers too. Gilan and Clarke.

Halt had slipped in sometime in the night, and the two poured over the few short notes the boys had sent the previous three days. In barely decipherable small handwriting Halt and Caitlyn had gotten their news:

Clarke: Got in.

Clarke: Recruited into bandit group. Advice?

Gilan: going on raid. Balway. No other information yet.

Clarke: have raid planned for Limeridge sometime late next week.

Gilan: Raid "successful". I'm fine. No new information. Working my way up. Jenkins (leader of bandits) seems to trust me.

"Is this normal for rangers? The boys were, what, fifteen? Surely this is not what they do for a living?"

Halt looked up at the sound of her quiet voice. He nodded, almost to himself, and muttered, "Of course it's not normal. But they are very capable young men."

Caitlyn shifted awkwardly. She had next to no experience with socializing past commenting on a dress or the weather. It's unfortunate women were all considered airheads who only care about makeup (though to be honest, most of them were). She reached out to place a hand on Halt's shoulder, a comforting gesture she had seen Mother do to Father often before they died.

She hesitated.

How much had Halt changed over the years? How different was he from the smiling, mischievous young boy she had always looked up to? Since when had he been so dark and grim?

"So…" Caitlyn let the single word hang in the air for longer than necessary, neither sibling knowing what to say. "Tell me more about Araluen." This could work. Changing the subject from Gilan and Clarke could give her some insight on Halt and his life in his new country.

"Caye, I've already told you most of it." Halt replied. It was easy to see that Caitlyn was attempting to distract him.

"Yes, but it was a very brief overview." Caitlyn sat down on her bed to make herself comfortable. "At least tell me how you ended up with a Battlemaster's son as your apprentice?"

Halt shook his head. Evidently there was no coming out of this. "I was visiting David, the Battlemaster at Caraway Fief. We were watching the Battleschool apprentices train. It was cold, and the boys were getting tired from the drills they were doing. Some were obviously slacking off, but none of the drill instructors noticed, because they were also busy keeping themselves warm."

Rolling her eyes, Caitlyn prompted him to continue.

"I wondered why David wasn't fuming from the lazy recruits and marching down towards the drill instructors, but then I noticed he was concentrating on one particular boy. The boy was doing better than the other people, he was performing the drills as called. That was when I remembered David had a son, Gilan. The last time I had seen Gilan he was only a small boy around four. He loved to follow me around, I believe, because he had an unhealthy obsession with my cloak for some reason."

Caitlyn laughed. "Your cloak is pretty interesting."

"It's called camouflage. The colors break up until it allows you to merge with the background. All rangers wear these. Of course, wearing the cloak is just part of concealment. We also practice moving with the shadows and staying still for long periods of time to use the cloak to its full effect."

"And here I thought you didn't have enough dye to have solid colors." She covered her grin with her hand.

Halt let out an exasperated sigh, "Not you too."

"Sorry, sorry. Please continue, Halt." Caitlyn held her hands up. She noticed Halt had gotten more relaxed and was talking, so she decided to let him continue.

"After the recruits were let on a short break, I followed David to go see Gilan. He was glad to see us, of course, but his smile never reached his eyes. David told me he's been like that since his mother had died a few years back. Mind you, he was still cracking jokes and such, but it was all very halfhearted. He was getting tired of Battleschool, I could tell. Of course, David was in denial, but I accidentally let it slip to Gilan that it was high time I listened to Crowley and get myself an apprentice. The boy needed a change of scenery, and apart from making rash decisions, he had some potential."

"So that's it, then? David just let you take him away?" Caitlyn was skeptical.

Halt smiled a little, "Oh, no. Gilan followed me on my way back to Redmont, my own fief, against his father's wishes. Really, it was almost an insult to my intelligence that he thought he was being sneaky. I knew he was there the entire time, though I admit he had a knack for concealed movement. I finally took pity on him and caught him when I was about halfway."

"What did you do? Did you send him back?"

Halt chuckled briefly, "No. I threw him in a nearby stream."

Caitlyn stared wide-eyed as Halt told her about the trip to Redmont, the reluctant consent of David, why Gilan is the only Ranger with a more or less full sized horse and a sword, and Gilan's disastrous first attempts with his bow.

As the ranger and princess talked, they had no way of knowing: there will be no more letters coming.

Not the next morning.

Nor the morning after.


	14. Loyalty Hurts

A small crowd of men gathered as a man stepped on the podium. He had his long hair swept back in a small ponytail, showing off a horrid scar on his neck, as if someone had nearly succeeded in slitting his throat. He cleared his throat gently, and the quiet mutterings of the crowd died away immediately.

"Gentlemen, you may be wondering," the man started, gesturing around the clearing in the woods where they were currently situated in. "Why I asked you all to come out here on this fine, sunny day. You could be having a picnic out here in the woods. Hunting. Enjoying yourselves. But despite all this, you came anyways. That, my friends, is loyalty." he turned in place, looking at members of the crowd as mutterings broke out again. "Yes, my friends, loyalty is why I have summoned you today."

Holding up a hand, the man continued in his quiet voice that seemed to echo around. "Now. We all know we have no true loyalty but to one thing. Money. As bandits, money is the driving force of our organization. No, I will not delude myself into thinking anyone here is solely loyal to me because of my charming personality." Jenkins gave a vicious grin. "However, under my leadership, you will get your money. Now, gentlemen, we shall discuss loyalty." He stepped of the small wooden podium, still towering above most people as he made his way through. The men parted respectfully as he passed.

"What would you like to do, Darren?" Jenkins suddenly turned towards a man. Darren swallowed nervously and said, "I- I would like to do my job, sir."

"What exactly is your job, Darren?"

"Scare villagers, sir."

"You like to fight, then? To intimidate weaker people? While you could be lounging lazily on a nice bed with servants under your command? While you could be out hunting with your friends, to be with your love?" Jenkins chuckled and turned away from Darren's abashed face. "This, my friends, is an example of a man who would flatter his way to the top. Yes, I admit that I am somewhat flattered. But _this_, this is not loyalty. This is a _lie_." People gasped as a knife appeared seemingly out of nowhere to rest on the side of Darren's neck. Jenkins lazily played with the knife, enjoying the way Darren's eyes bulged with fear. He abruptly twisted away, pivoting on his heel as he approached O'Brien.

"What d'you think should be done to liars, Mr. O'Brien? Cut out their tongues? Their ears? Or perhaps give them a scar like mine?"

O'Brien struggled to keep calm. Ever since he told Jenkins about the two ranger boys, the man seemed more and more mentally off balance. It's not as if these two boys were any threat, O'Brien told himself. They're only boys. But they are also rangers, the other side of his mind argued. Rangers were dangerous black sorcerers from Araluen. Gods above, why had he told Jenkins about them? "It would depend on the liar, sir." He decided to play it safe.

"Good, good." Jenkins nodded seriously. "Now, O'Brien, do you have children?"

O'Brien stiffened. Children was not a safe topic if you were a bandit. "Y-es, sir. But he died when he was nine." Clarke. His poor, poor child… _Curse that blasted drink. Why? Why was it so easy to just forget?_

Jenkins patted his back."I bet he was a wonderful son." He said with a sad smile. O'Brien suppressed a shiver as he noticed the smile never even came close to Jenkin's cold eyes. Wait. Does he mean…

"Back to our original topic!" Jenkins suddenly cried out, springing back on the podium. "Some people know true loyalty. A bond between father and son, for example." He gestured towards O'Brien. "I admire such bonds of loyalty."

"Now, I am a fairly good judge of character, if I do say so myself. Perhaps I did see loyalty when I recruited two young men into our ranks. What I did not see was that the loyalty was not to me, nor to money. These two boys were loyal to someone we have yet to discover. Do you know how I am sure of their loyalty?"

Heads shook no.

"They have withstood our interrogation methods, that's why!" With an over-dramatic sweep of his hand, he beckoned two men standing outside of a tent. The men went in and shoved out a blond and a brunette boy, both heavily bruised. The blond boy looked up defiantly, which was kind of hard considering the small trail of blood snaking down into his right eye. The brunette was not much better; his head lolled around slightly as he blinked away the bright sunlight. The man holding him ended up more supporting him than restraining.

"This, my friends, is Sean and Dorian." Jenkins waved his hand. The sunlight glinted threateningly off the razor sharp knife he still held in his hand. "Brothers, they claim. No matter, that is irrelevant. Dorian was sent on a raid, with us gentlemen. He performed well, according to O'Brien. Sean here was scheduled for next week."

Jenkins suddenly stuck his head close to Clarke. "What's that?"

"I said… m-my name... is not… Sean." Clarke choked out. Gilan shook his head quickly, but Clarke's eyes blazed brightly as he gathered strength. "My- my name is Clarke, you walking impression of an idiot."

Howls of laughter erupted from the crowd. Jenkins sent them all a scathing glare, but Gilan couldn't stop himself in time.

Jenkins calmly walked up to him, and punched him in the gut. Hard. The boy crumpled into a ball with a _oof!_ as he clutched his stomach. Clarke cried out and fought against the man holding his arms behind his back.

Gilan felt a red hot pain on his stomach as he saw his hand come away sticky and red. He tried hard not to hyperventilate, as breathing made the pain flare up even more.

Jenkins moved away, "This, gentlemen, is the blood of a liar. This is the very picture of both loyalty and disloyalty. I expect each and every one of you to behave the same way should you be captured. I applaud these young men for holding out this long." He slow clapped a few times before continuing, "You all remember; you recited an oath to me when you accepted your jobs. 'I will stick to this oath and to this loyalty until the day I die.' Isn't that right, O'Brien?"

"Yes, sir." O'Brien choked out quietly. Clarke. No. That can't be him. Clarke is dead. It's not him.

"And I expect you all to hold out until the end, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" The crowd of men all saluted.

Jenkins waved at the men holding Clarke and Gilan. "They're not going anywhere. Release them."

Clarke rushed to Gilan's side and whispered "You alright?"

"No, I just got sliced open. Of course I'm not alright!" Gilan whispered fiercely, blinking back tears.

Clarke slowly removed some of the bloodied cloth to reveal a long but thankfully shallow cut across Gilan's torso. He breathed a sigh of relief. He tore a bit of his shirt and formed a makeshift bandage, unaware how most of the bandits were watching closely, some in interest, most in amusement.

"Ah. If you aren't really brothers, you should have been." Jenkins sighed. "Now. Grab him."

Clarke cried out in protest as he was hauled onto his feet. Gilan was forced back up too, and watched in horror as his friend was dragged onto the small podium. Jenkins flipped his knife in the air and deftly caught it. "Which loyalty is the most important to you, hmm? Your mission?" He ran the knife lightly down Clarke's arm, making the boy stiffen in pain. "Or your friend?" Clarke gasped and gritted his teeth against the pain.

"I'll start with an easy question, Dorian. Since Sean here is actually Clarke, would you be so kind as to tell us your name?"

Gilan thought quickly. Revealing his name would have no real consequence now, would it? "My name is Gilan."

"Ah, see? That wasn't so hard, was it?" Jenkins smiled. "Gilan. A strong name. Fitting, I suppose. Gilan, would you please be so kind as to tell us what you and Clarke are doing here?" He positioned the knife to Clarke's throat.

Gilan hesitated, and cried out as a thin red line appeared on Clarke's neck. "I was sent here by… Arrêtez."

Jenkins narrowed his eyes. He had never heard of an Arrêtez before. He didn't fail to notice the small hesitation before the boy said "Arrêtez".

There are consequences to lying.

Clarke couldn't help the scream of pain that tore through him when Jenkins stabbed him in the kneecap. More blood came flowing out as his vision swam. He felt light-headed. Too much blood loss, he realized dully, before fainting.

O'Brien stepped forward. "Sir?" He asked tentatively. His boss's eyes gleamed as he turned.

"What?"

O'Brien couldn't control the words coming out of his mouth. "He's but a boy, Jenkins. He can't be that important, can he? We are bandits. We rob, we kill, but I've never seen torturing children."

"Are you defending this liar and traitor, O'Brien?" Jenkins wiped the last traces of Clarke's blood off his knife, his eyes narrowing.

"No, sir. I'm just saying, I'm afraid your methods of extracting information will not work for long. The boy is losing too much blood; he'll be dead before you get anything."

Jenkins swore inwardly as he saw some of his men nodding. "Very well, which do you suggest we do?" He kept his voice silky smooth, though his expression borderlined animalistic with his smile.

O'Brien knew he was treading on thin ice here. He swallowed "With all due respect, sir, I believe we should at least let him heal briefly first. We can ask those foreigners for some of their poison. It'll be much faster and less messy."

Jenkins could grudgingly see the logic behind O'Brien's argument. "Very well. You will go get the poison from the Genovesans. The rest of you, break is over, get back to work!"

Clarke and Gilan see hauled roughly onto small cots in the tent and were given a quick field dressing. "Can't have you two dying of infection too soon, eh?" Jenkins chuckled as he exited.

When they were at last alone aside from the two men standing guard outside of the tent, Gilan finally allowed the tears to stream down his face as he looked at Clarke's prone body. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have hesitated. I'm sorry!"

* * *

O'Brien swallowed nervously as he awaited the foreigners' reply. He had decided he did not like these cocky men in purple cloaks. Their accent alone put him on edge. He shifted on the hard wooden stool they had instructed him to wait in as they swept into their tent. He fiddled with his knife, admiring how the faint glow of the setting sun reflected off the polished surface. The sky turned a deep shade of red as clouds drifted in, leaving O'Brien feeling empty and shaken inside. How had he not recognized his _son_? He felt sick but was determined to maintain a collected exterior while dealing with these blasted Genovesans. Desperate to distract himself, he almost didn't realize that they had exited their tent and was standing in front of him, holding two small vials of clear liquid.

Annoyed at himself for getting caught off guard, O'Brien nodded at the vials. "What are those?"

One of the men, who had shed his cloak to reveal his tanned face and small goatee, smiled as if he was talking to a young child and said "Everything your leader asked for, Signor. A poison and an antidote."

O'Brien was very tempted to roll his eyes, "Yes, but what is it? What does it do?"

"I suggest you handle this with care. Now, is my payment ready?"

"Yes, yes." He handed over a small bag of coins he had liberated from Jenkins. It's not as if Jenkins would notice anymore… "Is there anything in particular that the poison does?" He was careful to keep his voice level and casual.

The Genovesan shrugged, "Headache, muscle weakness, pain, among some others." He opened the bag and started counting the coins, openly ignoring O'Brien.

"I'll just leave now." O'Brien muttered and pocketed the vials. His mind raced as he made his way back towards Jenkins's tent. Oh gods. He had _suggested_ they give this to the boys. Oh gods. Jenkins had really lost it. But _why_?

* * *

The pain in his stomach actually wasn't unbearable after the initial shock, but Gilan was scared out of his mind. Halt's training kicked in as he automatically scanned the room for possible ways out and also possible weapons, though there were obviously none. The plain tent was dark except for the small wavering light filtered in by the guards' campfire outside, filling the tent with an ominous gloom. By sharp contrast the cheerful crackling of the campfire and the smell of coffee made this whole ordeal ten times worse.

Beside him, Clarke stirred. Gilan attempted to go check on his friend but realized dully that he too was tied to his cot by a short piece of rope. Huh. Since had that been there? He realized his mind was working a little slow, probably due to the general dose of painkillers he was given.

"You alright?" He whispered, not exactly expecting an answer.

"I feel like someone sawed off my leg, but I think I'm otherwise okay." Clarke struggled to grin. "The painkiller's making it slightly better though…" He trailed off as he looked at the blood soaked bandage. "Oh. So that was real." He winced as he moved his leg slightly. "I think he missed major arteries and barely nicked the bone, but it still hurts like..." he stifled a small gasp as the movement of bending over and checking his knee moved his hastily thrown on bandages.

"Any brilliant ideas on how to get out of here?" Gilan asked as he watched the blond boy struggle to move to a sitting position. He grimaced in sympathy as he saw what the rough blanket thrown over Clarke covered.

"Well, since we haven't been sending notes and updates, surely Halt would have caught on by now that we're in some sort of trouble."

Gilan nodded dejectedly. "Seems like our only way out. Besides, can you move your leg at all?"

Clarke didn't have to test it out before letting out a low groan and shaking his head. "With luck Halt will bring Blaze and Lexa. We'll need a speedy getaway, and the horses are quiet enough."

The two boys sat in the semi-darkness as the forest lapsed into the gentle noises of the birds in the trees and the mutterings of the men outside.

"Never thought my first mission would end up quite like this." Gilan said softly.

"Hm?" Clarke could barely hear his friend. He wasn't sure if it was the soft buzzing in his ears or just that Gilan was being very quiet.

"When my father described to me Halt's past missions and such, I always thought this would be the life of excitement. I would have heroic tales to tell, I told myself the day I followed him home. I guess I overlooked the parts where it's all just a dull fear of uncertainty and waiting." Gilan was determined not to cry as he remembered the days where Halt would take him out to track some animals, to hide in the bush, and "Don't forget to keep your rear end out of the air". He remembered when Halt had first taught him how to string his bow, the minute smile he received when he hit his first bulls-eye. A small tear escaped down his cheek.

"Hey," Clarke said gently, "Listen, I don't know Halt half as well as you do, but from what I gathered so far, we're going to be perfectly fine. He'll come, just you wait."


	15. Empty Threats, Absent Letters, Coffee

Jenkins paced his tent, his mind working furiously. He hoped the loyalty speech was enough to convince his men he was at least somewhat insane. It had served dual purposes: on one hand, the two boys were intimidated and he had gotten their names, hopefully leading to more information later. On the other hand, he could figure out if anyone planned on betraying him anytime soon. Honestly, he didn't mean to hit the brunette Gilan with the knife, but it was too late to pull his hand back without it seeming like he second guessed himself. Okay, so maybe he laid it on a bit too dramatically…

Based on what O'Brien said, the two were ranger's apprentices, whatever that meant. According to various sources, rangers are highly trained men who meddle in dark magic, but so far Jenkins has seen no evidence of that. He supposed he could get some information for when they move out to Araluen with that bastard Tennyson and his son, who he named after himself for some reason. Egotistical dolt. Araluen…

Jenkins wondered briefly what had come to his brother Rory, who had been sent to Araluen with another group leader. The group has had no further contact with the Outsiders since… weeks ago, now. He shrugged philosophically. Rory was forgetful and perhaps he was so busy doing his job he doesn't have time to write. Jenkins smiled. Wait till they meet up in Araluen. Now he could finally pull rank on his older twin.

The bandit leader ran a hand through his messy hair and sat down heavily with a sigh. There was too much on his mind, too much craziness going on. Why did he agree to that old man's contract? "plenty of easy money." the contract claimed. "Nothing too dangerous."

He started awake as he heard the opening of his tent open up. He must've dozed off, he realized as he struggled to shake off the disorientation. "Oh. What are you doing here, O'Brien? Haven't you ever heard of knocking before?"

O'Brien shrugged and took out two small vials. "First things first, I got the poison. Second, this is a tent. Where should I be knocking?" The man seemed edgy and cross.

Jenkins raised an eyebrow. Was this man showing him attitude? "Forget that." He said offhandedly. "Now you have the poison, I would like you to be the one doing the interrogation. I have a meeting with the leader of the Outsiders and won't be back until later. I have a list of things for you to report back to me later." He smiled inwardly at the flash of fear and indecision in the man's eyes before O'Brien saluted stiffly and left the tent.

Jenkins let out a sigh of relief. He really didn't like to make people suffer, he decided, especially since he really disliked the sight of blood. He dared not show it, but he nearly vomited when he saw the extent of the blond boy, Clarke's, knife and head wound. He glanced outside at the midday sun and cursed. He really did have a meeting with Tennyson and Tennyson Jr, and they don't approve of him being late.

Not that he'd care much.

* * *

"Are you sure it isn't there?" Caitlyn asked nervously as she peered through the metal gate separating her from Halt. She pretended to admire the irises near the wall as she turned her back on the guards. Her eyes could barely make out her brother pressed up against the other side of the wall, well hidden from the guards at the angle.

Halt shook his head, "I've looked around. There has been no signs of footsteps, so there was no note delivered last night. His quiet voice betrayed none of the uncertainty and the worry churning inside him.

"Perhaps they were so caught up with everything that they… forgot? Or the note was stolen?" Caitlyn changed the pitch of her voice to make it seem like she was singing quietly to herself. It would do no good if the guards thought she was having conversations with air; it's not as if she could get any weirder than they thought she was (according to them, she should be swooning over Lord Calbart and satisfying herself with jewelry, dresses, and children).

"No. If they did manage to cover their tracks up that well, the person who stole it would have to also leave tracks themselves. The grass is still covered in dew apart from my own footprints. Also, they are not ones to forget much, though it may be true they were so busy they couldn't find a chance to get out…"

"Maybe I could go check on them." Caitlyn said abruptly. Before Halt could protest, she continued. "The Outsiders have never seen me. I doubt they even know I exist, thanks to dear brother Ferris," She spat out, annoyed. "Ferris just wants to marry me off like a prize in exchange for protection from neighboring kingdoms. Only a few major lords know of me, and they send no shortage of love letters either. I could go in disguise, wear peasant clothes and all. It shouldn't be difficult for me to find the boys and give them a note or talk to them."

Halt shook his head again. "No. It's too dangerous and could jeopardize both their safety and your own. Besides, based on the size of the camp it would take you days, and the castle will definitely notice your absence."

"I could arrange for me to visit my friend Lady Brenda. That would give me a few days. Gilan and Clarke would probably be in a far corner of the campsite; they wouldn't want the bandits to scare the people too much."

The bearded ranger risked a look around the corner noticed the grim face of determination Caitlyn had on her face. "Caye, that would make you extremely suspicious. The bandits would notice a woman in their area. What if they question you, or worse, what if they get _interested _in you? Those men have no respect and you don't have much to protect yourself with. Even that little dinner knife of yours won't do you much good."

Caitlyn felt her confidence waver a slight bit as she processed Halt's logic. She would be suspicious, true enough. She couldn't dress like a man; it would be hard to hide her long hair and feminine build in broad daylight. She couldn't sneak out at night; it would take much too long just to even get there, if Halt's judgement was correct. "But you won't be able to go either. Ferris is…"

"Ferris is staying safely at Lord Albert's castle. He has his guards with him every second of the day, and I wouldn't mind terribly if you became queen anyways." Caitlyn couldn't find any trace of a smile on Halt's face, but she would tell that he was (mostly) joking.

She sighed in resignation, "I just don't want to sit around and do nothing while you and the boys are risking your lives."

"You won't be doing nothing." Halt said in a serious tone. "I still think we may need to get a garrison of men ready to take out the bandits. Without the bandits, the Outsiders are nothing but empty words. Quietly, though. I don't need the entire army marching down to the camp. I would say thirty well trained men should be enough. Also, keep an eye out for suspicious activity. From what I've seen, Baron Holland is old but still a pompous toad, and he also seems to be meeting with some purple cloaked men in private. I haven't been able to investigate closer, but they look like Genovesans. Highly-"

"Highly trained assassins from Genovesa, specializes in poisons. Huh. Karel must've taught me more than I thought she did." The two siblings shared a small smile at the memory of their governess. "I'll look into Holland. You go make sure Gilan and Clarke are safe." She walked away, humming tunelessly as Halt himself ghosted away, covering his tracks by stepping into the dry and dense undergrowth.

* * *

Crowley was back at the deserted Gathering Ground, packing up his supplies and making sure he left no trace as he saddled Cropper. He had gotten back last morning, after dealing with most of his paperwork and resupplying on coffee.

Cropper raised his head up from grazing and gave his master a baleful look _You're wasting your time. If there was something here you would've found it by now. It's been too long; any clues would've been long gone._

"Yes, I realize that. Why do you think I'm packing?" Crowley replied. The young commandant enjoyed conversations with Cropper; the horse was exceptionally intelligent, if he said so himself.

_Paperwork._ Cropper shrugged before resuming his grazing.

But sometimes the horse could also be so darn annoying sometimes. Crowley couldn't think of a good comeback in time and decided to let his horse have the last word.

_You know I always do_.

Crowley could almost see Cropper's smug expression as he finished kicking dirt over the small fire and mounted the chestnut pony. "Come on, let's go see these 'Outsiders' Halt mentioned in his note."

Rider and horse headed towards the west coast, away from Castle Araluen, Castle Redmont, and most importantly, paperwork.


	16. How NOT to do an Interrogation

O'Brien's hands shook as he fingered the small glass vials in the pocket of his vest. He had to stuff his hand in the pocket to conceal the shaking as he nodded to the two sentries, took a deep breath, and stepped into the dim tent.

The stuffy interior smelled metallic, and a breath of fresh air from the open tent flap was welcome. O'Brien dragged a small stool over to the corner of the tent, laid out the two bottles of poison and antidote, and closed the tent flap slowly. He could see the wariness in the boys' eyes as they followed his movements. It was quite unnerving. Clar- the blond boy in particular glared at him through blazing green eyes.

After a few minutes of the awkward staredown, O'Brien cleared his throat. "Jenkins sent me to ask you boys a few questions. I suggest you comply; I've heard this poison does nasty things to its victims." Hopefully the sedative mixed with the painkillers would keep them off balanced and not put up a fight. He cleared his throat. "State your full names."

Gilan and Clarke looked at each other. Telling him their real names is probably just an opening question; he probably doesn't care. Gilan went first "Gilan Davidson."

"Clarke O'Brien." Clarke muttered.

O'Brien paled a little but kept his expression neutral. "What is your purpose here?"

Clarke couldn't resist the surge of anger towards the man sitting in the tent, who was _supposed_ to be his role model, his protector, his mentor. "Well, we are tied up to these cots and listening to you asking us questions. If you're wondering _why_ we're here, we were told to. And if you're wondering _how_, we came on your ship, _father_." He spat out that last word with contempt.

Gilan looked on terrified as O'Brien sighed, got up, and took slow steps towards Clarke. The boy struggled uselessly against the restraining ropes. Gilan himself fought and managed to make the cot wobble slightly before stopping for fear of more punishment on Clarke.

Wait.

Hold on.

Father?!

Clarke stuck his chin out defiantly as O'Brien looked down at him. "Congratulations. You caught up with me. What are you going to do now, bring me home and lock me up again?"

He did not expect the drop of moisture that fell on his bare skin. It ran down his arm, stinging when it ran into the small cuts he had.

Gilan couldn't understand why O'Brien was so different than the man who had lead the raid fearlessly after Jenkins got hit. Sure, it wasn't the right thing to do, but Gilan could not help but to admire his courage. This man standing next to Clarke was slouching a little due to the low ceiling of the tent, making him look rather pitiful. His face obscured in the dim light, all Gilan could make out was his shaking shoulders. Was this guy _crying?!_

Oh.

O'Brien tried to wipe his eyes discreetly and stifled another round of quiet laughter. He grabbed Clarke's face rather roughly as he examined the boy.

Clarke struggled a little at first but resigned and stared directly back at the tall bandit. The man sported a few days worth of stubble. He had a crooked nose and prominent cheekbones. He was shaking his head slightly with upturned lips, as if he just realized something wonderful.

O'Brien's deep voice shook a little as he muttered something nearly inaudibly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You're not my son."

Clarke hadn't expected the comment to hurt nearly as much as it did. "Well, that could've saved me a great deal of pain." He snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Gilan winced involuntarily at the amount of venom in his voice.

"You're not my son." O'Brien repeated. "My son died years ago."

By now, Gilan was past confused. Though he could barely see in the dark, his sharp eyes could make out the now blindingly obvious similarities between Clarke and O'Brien. Their posture, hair color, the way they stared at each other, analyzing one another… He had noticed most of this on the first day when he was lined up with all the other recruits, but back then he had convinced himself it was just a coincidence, right? So… is or is this man not Clarke's father? And what did he mean, Clarke died?

Clarke grit his teeth together, "If you're going to interrogate us, make it quick. It doesn't matter if I'm your son or not, obviously _you_ wouldn't care." He trailed off. He had expected maybe a slap on the face, but what he did not expect was for O'Brien to nod abruptly and to retrieve one of the liquid vials.

"I'm going to take turns asking you two questions. If you lie or do something otherwise unexpected, I will use this." He shook the vial threateningly and turned towards Gilan. "You first. How did you get here?"

Thrown off by the abrupt change of topic, Gilan quickly recounted the past few days, starting from when they first posed as some random man's lost sons. He was careful to leave out the parts with Halt and Caitlyn and their notes.

O'Brien stood still as a statue, still towering over Clarke, and appeared deep in thought. "Who sent you?"

Gilan wasn't sure if the question was addressed to him, but since he had already formulated an answer a few minutes before, he spoke up. "We came to meet up with my old mentor, Abelard, after we heard he was going to come investigate the Outsiders. He never showed up, though. I don't know if he… if he's dead or…" He saw Clarke sneak a quick glance at him, unnoticed by O'Brien.

_Abelard? What kind of name is Abelard?_ O'Brien wondered if this was just another name the boy had created; it seemed about as common a name as Dorian. "So you have been sent here without any instruction? What was it that you planned to do?"

"Well, we _were_ planning on taking out the Outsiders, but since Jenkins grabbed us, our main focus was to get out of here." Clarke shrugged. "It was nearly going to be too easy before Jenkins ordered his men to grab us and interrogated us. I assume it was you who told him we were on your ship. "

_Your ship_. For some odd reason, this set O'Brien on edge. _They were on your own ship and you didn't notice them._ He thought back to all those weeks ago, when he dropped off Jenkin's brother Rory and the other bandits in Araluen. While he was taking care of some business, it seemed as if his first mate was bribed to let them on the ship. Dressed in their cloaks with their faces shadowed, O'Brien couldn't tell who they were, only that they looked professional and not to mention dangerous.

"Why did you get on my ship, then? If you were really Clarke, and you really did not die, why would you ever even consider coming back? You knew it was my ship." O'Brien smirked as he thought he had a winning point.

"Desperate times, desperate measures. I assumed the business had gone down after I left, judging by the state of that ship. And the man who I thought was the captain was nice enough to allow us onboard."

O'Brien cursed under his breath, "Must've been when the men were leaving town."

Clarke frowned, "The men? Do you by any chance mean bandits? Some attacked us, you know, about two days after we set out."

This piqued O'Brien's interest. He had often wondered what happened to Rory. He was one of the only decent people around here, and had been the one to get O'Brien himself involved with the Outsiders.

_And indirectly reunited me with Clarke,_ a very quiet but persistent voice in his head said. O'Brien shook his head. No. Clarke was dead. Right? Filling with self doubt, he cleared his throat, "I'm the one asking questions around here, boy."

"Right. So we put them in the local jail and went about our merry way, found your ship, got over here, and you know the rest." Clarke continued.

Something about Clarke's voice, maybe his offhanded tone, maybe the fact that these two children put Rory in jail, _something_ made O'Brien snap. He roared in fury (who cares about the two men standing guard outside) and punched the closest thing to his hand.

Which, unfortunately, was Clarke's recently injured, completely immobile, and still quite painful knee.


	17. Revelations

Halt ghosted towards the rowdy camp. About fifty meters away, he could smell the fat and juices of roasting ducks sizzling over the large campfires. People milled around aimlessly as they waited for dinner and the nightly sermon, something that their leader insists on to boost morale. The flickering shadows cast by the fires gave Halt more than enough cover as he scouted out the perimeter of the camp.

As he neared the northern part of the area, the crowds thinned out. What was left of them were all grim faced, heavily armed men in groups of two or three. Halt noted that most of them had finely crafted swords; they looked more like trained mercenaries than bandits. One grunted in annoyance at some quiet sound and prodded the opening of the tent he was standing in front of with the hilt of his sword. Halt heard the muffled and scared cry of… a little girl?

"Why did Charles send '_Raluen _girls as servants? We have plenty of ladies here already," A short man asked, jerking his head towards the tent, "Their accents are drivin' me insane."

"Most of the ones here are locals and would get spotted immediately, blockhead. Besides, we can keep this lot in line. They're scared out of their simple little minds. They wouldn't know the severity of their actions until too late." The man standing beside him muttered angrily.

Halt scowled. The kidnapped girls had been here the whole time. He edged backwards until he was well hidden from the guards.

"What was that?" The guard who grumbled about the girls asked. He had heard something, like leaves crackling under someone's footsteps.

"Dunno, probably just a deer or something." His companion shrugged. "I'll go check it out anyways." He walked away, thankful for a slight change in scenery, however shortly. Being away from his complaining comrade was also nice. He looked around, ears alert for any suspicious noise. It was near impossible to see anything in this darkness.

Halt took a careful step forward out from his position behind a tree and slammed his twin strikers on the man's temple. The unfortunate guard let out a small cry and slumped to the ground; he would probably wake up with a nasty concussion later. Halt dragged his prone body under the cover of some branches and proceeded quietly to the other man.

"Daniels? You there?" The man asked. He had heard the cry but assumed his friend had tripped on something. His eyes bulged as a terrifying black mass appeared out of nowhere. Cold metal met the back of his head as he knew no more.

Halt proceeded to peel back the opening of the tent flap. Inside was several girls, ranging from seven to sixteen years of age. The older girls had their arms wrapped protectively around the young ones. All of them looked starved, some of them sickly.

"G-get away from us, you monster." A brave little girl said. Halt realized he still had his hood up, and with the light behind him he must have looked like any other Outsider. He slowly raised up both hands and pulled back his hood with one.

"Don't worry. I am here to take you home." He said in what he hoped was a comforting voice, deliberately losing the little Hibernian burr he had reacquired since in Clonmel.

"Who are you?" Relieved to hear a familiar accent, the little dark haired girl asked.

Halt considered the question for a second before replying, "A friend." He swiftly moved through the tent, using his small throwing knife to cut the bonds holding the girls in place. "Call me Halt."

* * *

With the girls held prisoner safely delivered out of the current vicinity of the camp, Halt decided it was time to ask some questions. In his nicest tone he mentioned two tall boys about fifteen, one blond haired green eyes, the other brown hair brown eyes. It would have worked, except for the mention of blond hair and green eyes sent most girls in a panicked hysteria, and they had to go deeper into the forest to avoid being heard.

From what the girls told him, the man who held them captive is called O'Brien. He works for Jenkins, who is apparently the leader of the bandits. They were held in the tent nearly all day to minimize contact with the Outsiders supporters. None of them knew why they were here, but their stories were similar: they were all snatched in the dead of night, bound up, tossed on a ship, and delivered here. Some of the girls have already been taken out of the tent and have never returned.

They haven't heard anything about two boys, though they recall some time a few days ago where there was a huge commotion and most of the bandits were called to a meeting. Something about insanity and prisoners, maybe? Halt felt a cold hand of fear wrap around his heart.

"Do you know of Princess Caitlyn O'Carrick?"

A few nods from the older girls.

"I will send a note to her and she will grant you safe passage back to Araluen. No time for questions. I will escort you out of here, and you go home. I am assuming you know where home is?"

Slightly more nods this time.

"We need to get you to the castle before dawn." He pointed to the three oldest girls. "See if you can carry the younger ones; we'll move faster."

Of course, they traveled at a much slower rate than Halt would've liked. He had to remind himself these kidnapped young girls were starved and probably haven't been able to move around much for the past few weeks. Halt was anxious to get back to looking for Gil and Clarke, and what the girls said provided no more but an increasing feeling of dread.

This was certainly not the most well thought out of plans, and even those come with unforeseeable issues.

* * *

About three hundred meters away, well hidden in a small copse of trees, two ranger's apprentices were now alone in the tent. One was unconscious, his pale face gleaming with sweat. There was an unpleasant smell coming from the soaked bandage wrapped around his leg. He muttered something incoherent and tried to toss and turn, but the short strand of thick rope tied around his wrists rendered him immobile.

Gilan was thankful, in a way, for the rope. It was the only thing keeping Clarke from rolling off the bed or injuring himself more by moving his leg. He had been unconscious since O'Brien _accidentally_ broke his knee; the muttering and the vivid nightmares he was having started only a few hours ago.

O'Brien had ordered a healer to patch Clarke up after his anger got out of hand in the tent. According to him, Jenkins wanted to ransom them to the rangers when the Clonmel business was done and he rendezvous with Rory in Araluen, meaning the two boys couldn't be too battered up.

Most of Gilan's cuts were healing. The cut over his stomach still stung badly, but he could manage. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Clarke. The skin around his knee was red and blistering; it made Gilan queasy to look at.

"It was my fault."

Gilan's eyes snapped open when he heard someone say something. He must've drifted off a while ago, though it was impossible to really tell. Seconds drifted by as he shook off the disorientation and shifted into somewhat a sitting position. "Clarke?"

"He was right." The boy whispered quietly, almost to himself. "I did kill her."

By now Gilan could see that Clarke's eyes were still closed; he was still dreaming. Who was right? He killed who?

* * *

It was widely known that Sean O'Brien had a temper. That, in addition to his unfortunate love of alcohol, made him a very dangerous man. His wife Sara was the only one able to calm him down in his drunken rages. She understood him, and no matter how drunk he became, he was still reluctant to strike her.

That is, until one day she came home to find her husband unconscious on the floor of their small shop. A broken bottle clenched tightly in one hand, he was on his side, barely breathing. Sara O'Brien immediately dropped the groceries she had bought and rolled him onto his back. He stenched of ale and his pulse fluttered weakly under her fingers. Sara noticed a faint gleam of metal and carefully loosened Sean's fingers from a knife, previously hidden from view. With that taken care of, Sara briefly wondered if she should try and wake him up, get someone to carry him to bed, or fetch a healer. As a well built and surprisingly strong woman, she could've carried (or at least dragged) the scrawny man herself, if not for her swollen belly. The baby was due in a month or two and she was on specific orders not to carry anything weighing more than her one year old son Clarke. Sara grunted as she stood up and moved the knife to the counter, just in case her curious son happened to wake up and crawl over here.

She tried to pry the bottle loose, but Sean had too tight a grip on it.

She busied herself cleaning bits and pieces of the broken bottle from the floor.

Sara heard Clarke let out a rather ear-splitting cry: little Clarke had woken up to find himself alone in the dark bedroom and crawled out, looking for his mummy.

No one, except for one year old Clarke O'Brien, had witnessed the time stopping moment when Sean O'Brien suddenly bolted awake at the sound of his son's cry, brandishing the broken bottle at the figure kneeling beside him.

It was said that Sarahia Elizabeth O'Brien died due to childbirth complications.


	18. Trust Me

Caitlyn breathed a sigh of relief. She hitched up the bottom of her skirts as she ascended the last of the steps up into her chambers. The girls were safe.

When Halt appeared out of nowhere with a group young maidens following close behind, Caitlyn had a strange sight to behold. Halt had quickly filled her in on the situation. The girls were kidnapped, he got them out, all she had to do is to get them home. Simple. One thing that nagged her was the girls' dresses; they were the standard for the castle servants here in Castle Dun Kilty. She quickly shoved the thought into the back of her mind, however, and ordered them to follow her. In pairs of twos and threes, she escorted the girls into her chamber, where she found clean dresses and told them to change while she got food. After all the girls were safe in her suite of rooms, Halt quickly bid her goodbye. He had yet to find Gilan and Clarke.

Caitlyn was faced with two problems. First and foremost, how was she supposed to get these girls to Araluen? It's not as if she could just order a ship and stick them on it. Racking her brain, she sat down heavily on her chair, head in her hands. One girl, no older than ten, scooted up beside her chair.

"So… you're a princess?"

Caitlyn nodded. "Annie, right? Yes, I am a princess. Why?"

Annie blushed. She was talking to a real live princess! "Nothin'," she muttered, embarrassed. "It's just… you don't seem like one." Caitlyn self-consciously smoothed down her tangled brown hair. Annie, being the perceptive girl she was, shook her head, "Oh, no, Your Highness. I mean, you look every bit like a princess. It just… I thought princesses wouldn't be tired. Don't you just sit around all day while normal folk like us work for you?"

Caitlyn gaped a little at that. Was this what "normal folk" think of royalty? "Sometimes I wish it was like that." She whispered quietly. "But, it just doesn't seem fair, you know? Besides, I don't trust it when too many people do things for me. You never know when you rely on someone too much until they disappear…"

"Why would you help an Araluen forester like Halt?" One of the older girls, Sophi, asked. By now, most of the girls had crowded around her chair.

"Err…"

"Is he a secret love?" Annie giggled.

Caitlyn felt her face flush as she snorted. "Ha, no. Halt is my brother." She hoped they don't press further; lying to them didn't seem nice. But at the same time…

"But… wouldn't that make him a prince?"

Caitlyn paused. "Yeah, it does." She let out a small sigh. "And he would've been a bloody great one too."

"Why he dressed like poor? His cloak's not even the same color." The youngest of the group, nine year old Brinley, asked as she blew the steam from her mug.

"He's not dressed poorly." Caitlyn said defensively. "It's called camouflage."

The rest of the night passed quickly as Caitlyn answered the girls' questions as best as she could without revealing too much. She liked the girls, but it pays to be cautious. No telling what would happen to the girls once they got home. Questions would be asked, and with those questions suspicions. After all the girls had drifted into the first peaceful sleep they have gotten in the past few months, Caitlyn rubbed her own eyes. How the blazes is she going to explain this to…

Natalie.

* * *

After he made sure the girls were safe for time being, Halt quickly mounted Abelard and went back to camp. He had a pretty good idea where Gilan and Clarke were, and he didn't want them to have to wait for a second more than necessary. Sensing his master's distress, Abelard pushed a little faster.

They were a few kilometers away from the camp when Abelard caught the smell of a man. Horse and rider carefully stepped off the small trail they made. Halt motioned for Abelard to kneel, allowing the forest to completely cover the little horse. Halt slipped an arrow out of his quiver and waited.

An eternity seemed to pass before a sound of footsteps reached Halt's ears. A lone man, slowly making his way down a small game trail. Halt nocked his arrow.

"Black shadow monster my arse. Probably just an excuse for dozing off on the job." The man grumbled in a deep voice. He looked up at the early morning sun and cursed. "Where could they have gone? It's not as if they had anyone on the outside… This is why you don't send monkeys to do a man's job." He stopped as he seemingly found a footprint or a thread of cloth. "And now they're gone… Well, Jenkins is going to murder me."

Halt risked a glance at the man from behind a tree. He was blonde, a tall hulk of a man. He looked like a soldier, especially with the wicked sword he had in his scabbard. But his clothing was poor, just a simple ragtag tunic and trousers and not armour or the comparatively (slightly) nicer clothes of regular soldiers. A bandit, then. Based on the girls' descriptions, this is likely the man called O'Brien.

Less than ten meters away.

At the pace he was going, nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Halt readied himself as he pictured the man in his mind's eye.

Five.

"I shouldn't have done that, should I?"

Halt paused. Done what? Burning with curiosity, he resisted the urge to look around the tree again.

"I didn't mean to hurt him, I swear to god. It's just… if it wasn't for him… I thought he… dead?" O'Brien looked about ready to break something. Instead, he pulled at a silver chain around his neck to reveal a gleaming pendant. "Forgive me, Sara." The man sat down heavily on a fallen log. This was no use. The girls could be anywhere by now, especially with someone's help. "What should I do? I don't want to hurt him, but Jenkins is going to be suspicious. If they disappear, he'll immediately know it was me. I can't run; I have nothing else but him."

By now, Halt decided to put the man's life-changing decision talk thing on hold. His arrows stored safely back in its quiver, he palmed his throwing knife. Since a stranger stepping out of nowhere is enough to shut any man's lips tight, Halt decided to utilize his charming personality. And his knife, of course.

O'Brien went from worrying about his life after he got back to camp to worrying about his life right now in the hands of a black shadow monster.

"Hullo. Fancy meeting you here. O'Brien, I assume?" A grim grin on his face, Halt was slightly annoyed that even kneeling, the man was only slightly shorter than Halt's shoulders when he was standing. Curse you, tall people.

Talking was surprisingly difficult with a knife on your throat, as O'Brien found out the hard way. The man holding a knife to his throat had sneaked up behind him kicked the back of his knees, bringing him down. The knife appeared out of nowhere and dug painfully into his skin, though not enough to draw blood. Whoever it was, he had a great amount of skill with his weapon. "Who the h-" He choked out.

"Watch your language. No sudden movements, stand up. I will take the knife from your throat. Be advised, however. Walking without achilles tendons can be quite difficult." Halt then let out a piercing whistle. Abelard trotted out of his hiding place. "Follow, Abe."

O'Brien was lead, or rather, dragged to an empty clearing not far away, only four kilometers from camp. So close, yet so far, he thought as he was secured to the trunk of a tree. His hooded captor busied himself taking care of the pony after searching O'Brien for weapons. O'Brien's sword laid beside another one, blue hued and elegant. Though smaller, it still made the huge broadsword look sloppy and awkward. The four small knives that he had liberated from Gilan and Clarke were stored in weirdly designed double scabbards, slipping perfectly in as if it was custom made for them, along with a large knife. The longest bow O'Brien had ever seen leaned against another tree, along with a quiver of two dozen black arrows.

O'Brien knew he was in deep trouble. This was not a man to me messed with. He struggled against the rope, his thumb and ankle cuffs biting into his skin. This was his chance; his captor had gone off with a bucket, presumably to get water. He twisted his hands, wincing as the leather of his cuffs cut into his thumbs. If only he could reach…

"Not thinking about leaving so soon, are you?" Halt leaned on the tree, lazily flipping a knife in the air and catching it. "That was rhetorical, don't actually answer. I have a few questions and then you can go about your merry way." He set the filled bucket in front of Abelard and allowed the horse to drink.

"I don't know anything about them Outsiders, if that's what you're asking about. Jenk… my boss is the one who deals with all them." O'Brien nearly had a heart attack when he heard his captor. There was no one there, and then suddenly he was! What sorcery!

Halt nodded. "That was actually not what I was wondering about, but I'll keep it in mind. Now, to business."

"You're one of the ranger folk, aren't you? Abelard?" O'Brien looked at the man's cloak.

"What do you know about rangers?" Halt asked, his eyebrow raised. Alarms were going off in his head. How does this man know about Abelard's name… or mistake it for his?

O'Brien tried to shrug, but the rope tying his to the tree only allowed him to shake his shoulder up a little. "Found two of you on my ship. Weird cloak, dark magicians. Bad men many people think should be arrested and locked up."

"The two on the ship. What were they doing?"

"Looking for a change of scenery, I wouldn't know. Avoided me most o' the trip. Wouldn't have known they were there if not for my navigator." O'Brien added as an afterthought. "I found them again, though. You're their mentor, aren't you?" He smiled smugly. "They were begging for you last I saw them." It was a low shot, even he knew, but angry men are generally more impulsive than calm ones. Who knows, maybe his captor would get mad and mess up somehow. That being said, the man looked increasingly more terrifying as his bow and arrows seemed to leap into his hands. In retrospect, perhaps not saying that might have been better.

"What did you say?" Halt snarled. He had half the mind to actually shoot this bastard someplace, but unfortunately, this man could be the key to get Gilan and Clarke. "Choose your words wisely."

"Err… Jenkins found them and recruited them, one of them, Gilan, went on a raid with us, Jenkins went crazy, and they got captured." Sweat trickled down his forehead. "I had next to nothing to do with it, I swear!"

"And the boy with blond hair? What about him?"

"Cl- He's with Gilan too."

Halt pondered on this information. This explains why there have been no letters. Struggling to keep the relief inside from spilling out, he asked "What were you planning to do with them?" Thank whatever deity is above, they're alive!

"Jenkins interrogated them I think he plans to ransom them to you lot after we move to Ar- rrida."

"You must have realized by now that I have no time for this. If you're going to waste my time, might as well take care of you if you don't give me correct information. One less bandit in the world makes a slightly better world, as the saying goes." Halt adjusted his arrow.

Having never heard of this saying, O'Brien was frowning a little until the broad arrowhead pointed at his heart,"No! I meant Araluen!" Well, he was a bandit, after all. Screw Jenkins and his loyalty speech.

"Better. So, ransom. I expect they're locked up someplace for now. Perhaps I won't shoot him, Abelard."

The little horse, who had been grazing placidly nearby, only perked up his ears a slight bit as he found a greener patch of grass.

"Abelard? That's your pony's name?"O'Brien was confused, to say the least. "Why would you name your horse after yours- they lied to me, didn't they?"

On the inside, Halt was pleased and proud of his apprentices. He showed none of this as he shrugged "So what if it is?"

"Then what's your name?"

"Last I recalled, a man named O'Brien, you, was tied to the tree, and his captor, which is me, was asking the questions. Not the other way around. Where are the boys?"

"In a tent." O'Brien decided to answer as vaguely as he could. He stilled planned on getting away, somehow. He's still working on the details.

"Which tent?" Halt picked up on the vague answer trick. Two can play that game. He didn't ask where, since O'Brien could just reply "At camp."

"The one where we hold prisoners."

_You little piece of horse dung._ "Look, I am very impatient. You are annoying and unhelpful. I'm sure I can find them on my own. You're tied to a tree with an arrowhead pointed at your heart. Tread carefully."

O'Brien gulped. Well, there go plans A through D. "Please." He whispered. "I'm only doing this for my son."

"Son?" Halt couldn't contain his curiosity.

"I… I failed him." O'Brien muttered. "I blamed him for everything. His mother, his sister, my business. He was gone. And now he's back and he's about to die."

Putting together the pieces, the ranger paused. "Clarke? Clarke is your son?" Halt was not necessarily dumbstruck, but he was certainly shocked, to say the least. Little Clarke, who Crowley often mentioned. Troublemaker, shy, sarcastic, rebellious. Clarke?

O'Brien hung his head and said nothing.

"You want to help him?" Halt asked quietly.

"I'm just not brave or smart enough to do so."

"Would you do anything to save him?"

"Almost, yes." O'Brien could hear the slight change in tone of his captor's voice. "Why? Why would you help?"

"I know what it feels like to have a loved one in trouble and not able to do anything." Halt said shortly.

"It's Gilan, isn't it?"

"I made a promise," Halt muttered. "How can I be sure you won't just kill me and escape after I free you?"

O'Brien tried to shrug again. "Trust my rage."


	19. Let Them Go

The sky shown with glittering stars as a hooded figure slipped through the trees. The figure's face was concealed from any light that may happen to find its way through the cloudy night. He had a sword sheathed in a scabbard with an oakleaf insignia, along with a slight bulge of a pack at his side. Bottles clinked emptily in the bag, startling the figure. He quickly scanned the surrounding area, thankful his eyes had already adjusted to the dim. After he reassured himself no one was around, he continued. The clearing appeared after the short four minute walk northeast. A small fire crackled merrily in the center, and the smell of roasted ptarmigans was a warm welcome from the overbearing smell of the braised ducks at Main Camp.

Two men lounged lazily on the roots of a great towering tree, chatting away while finishing off a mug or two of ale. Or perhaps three, based on the way they behaved. The dark figure could barely suppress an eye roll. Some guards they are. He briefly wondered if he should just walk through the clearing; it wasn't as if he wasn't a stranger or anything. But he abandoned that thought when he accidentally stepped on a twig. One of the men, slightly more sober of the two, perked up his ears and looked around. The hooded figure grounded his teeth as he shouldered the bag. He had to get rid of it, before he could muster the courage to face _him_. Actually, the guards may be pretty helpful…

Two men laid slumped over each other as the third stepped back to admire his handiwork. They would wake up from this having no recollection of anything that happened the previous night, if all goes as planned. He dribbled some leftover ale into their mouth and onto their uniforms. Serves you right for drinking on the job.

The man himself may have not been the most stable he could be, but the fiery liquid in his system allowed him to push aside the opening of the tent, where two boys were currently in fitful sleep.

Gilan jolted awake at the sound of quiet sawing. He tried to get away from the figure looming above him, only to struggle a little too hard before crashing to the ground. Though it wasn't very far from the ground, Gilan felt pain flare up in his side. The first thing he noticed was that he had been untied. The second thing was that lord above he was sore all over. Staying in the same position for days on end was about as effective as running all day, Gilan pushed back the burning cramps as he forced himself up into a sitting position. The third thing he noticed was the hooded figure's outfit. "Halt?"

The figure paused as he was untying Clarke. "No."

Gilan's heart froze as the figure kneeled beside Clarke, knife still in hand. That was the fourth thing Gilan noticed. Clarke was still. Not muttering. Not moving. Not when the figure came in. Not while the figure crouched beside him.

"What are you doing?! Get away from him!" Somehow Gilan mustered the strength to get up. His muscles screaming in protest, he noticed a sword by the man's side and made a lunge for it. Before any of them knew, Gilan had the sword pointed at the man's soft throat. Huh. This…

"How did you get this sword?" Though still weak, Gilan's blazing eyes made up for his lack of strength as he nudged his sword a little too close for comfort on the man's adam's apple. It was clear he was fully prepared to push it further if the man tried to do anything.

"A… man." The hooded figure gasped out. "He… he told me to tell you Arratay… is coming and… gave me this sword."

It did not escape Gilan's notice that with with his slowed reflexes, it was either he caught the man by surprise (unlikely) or… oh. "How do you know of this… Arratay?" Gilan asked as he unarmed the man. Inside, Gilan was relieved. Oh, so relieved. Halt was coming! They were going to be alright!

"The man found me early this morning. Short man, lean, a ranger, like you. He talked to me and… persuaded me to help him get you out. And also to save my son." O'Brien looked at Clarke.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Gilan pointed out. Sure, O'Brien had untied him, allowed him his sword, and not murdered either of them, but…

O'Brien nodded "He told me you would say that." He dug around in his pack under Gilan's close watch.

Two razor sharp, perfectly balanced, familiar throwing knives. The ones that had been confiscated when they were discovered. Gilan gingerly took them and stowed them in his double knife scabbard, which O'Brien had also given back to him. He had a fleeting thought of running; O'Brien was unarmed now. But Clarke was still here, and he was in no condition to be moved, much less run. "Why are you helping us all of a sudden?" He muttered to himself. The entire thing seemed a little too… set up. With the adrenaline spike fading, Gilan would now feel the newly scabbed cut on his torso got reopened. Blood was staining both his bandage and tattered tunic.

O'Brien didn't respond as he gathered Clarke in his arms. The tall apprentice looked small in the arms of his father. His face was pale, his breathing shallow and fast. "Come on." O'Brien turned and left the tent. "We need to get you someplace safe. Tristan and Allum won't stay down for long, and Clar- he needs help." He handed his bag to Gilan. "Your cloak is in there."

Gilan donned his mottled, slightly worn Ranger's cloak. Things were going to be alright now.

He swayed a little.

Was the world supposed to be this blurry and spinny?

* * *

Halt grumbled curses under his breath as he saddled Blaze and Lexa. The two horses were beside themselves with worry for their masters. Only their training kept them from bolting into the camp and tearing everything apart until they found the boys. Halt had taken off their saddles and allowed them to graze freely in the woods while he was busy with Ferris and Caitlyn was in the castle.

"Shh…" He comforted them. Halt almost muttered some Gallic phrases before he remembered only Abelard would understand. He resigned to stroking them and giving them each an apple. Yes, bribery works on horses too. They calmed down just a tiny bit.

Abelard was already saddled and impatient to leave. He would sense the inner turmoil Halt kept hidden and decided that the sooner the boys were back safe, the sooner his master could calm back down too. Abelard had noticed the worry coiled like a spring inside Halt since Gilan and Clarke showed up at the inn. Halt barely sleeps, barely eats now. He's running off of nothing but coffee and worry now. He tossed his mane and nudged Halt softly on the shoulder.

The grizzled ranger stroked his horse as he double checked his packs. He had medicine, like the man had asked for. He had already set up his tent in a secluded area about four kilometers away from the Outsiders camp, and transferred the boys' weapons and supplies there. He just came back to say goodbye to Caitlyn and fetch Blaze and Lexa. Halt knew he was putting an enormous amount of trust in the stranger he just met, but the bond between father and son should be strong enough. Well, that and the promise of safe haven in Araluen.

He just hoped they would be there, safe and sound, by the time he got back to them.

Halt paced the clearing. There was his one man tent set up in a corner, along with a bucket of fresh water from the stream. Bandages and his field dressing kit sat in a bag on the spare collapsible bucket, which served as a small table. He had food, water, medicine. Now all he could do is wait and hope O'Brien had done his job.

Halt had done his fair share of waiting before. It was part of being a ranger, after all. However, this was by far one of the worst he had ever experienced. All the other times he could control what he was waiting for. This one required a huge amount of trust in a frankly crazy bandit and a number of other factors. Nothing could be worse.

Abelard was the only one not pacing. Blaze and Lexa danced slightly around, as if each creak of wind in the trees or snap of a twig could be O'Brien with their masters.

_They're late._ Abelard noted. He was pretty confident O'Brien would bring the boys back, but even he was beginning to worry. The atmosphere of the clearing was as tense as a bowstring, and no amount of coffee could fix this.

* * *

Commandant Crowley had only been commandant for a few years. He missed the freedom of being a regular ranger, free of paperwork and overbearing Lords and Barons trying to push "the little sneak" out of the castle. However, he had conveniently forgotten the long days of riding, the tasteless meals of jerky and stale bread, and the bumpy forest floor that served as a bed. After four such days of sore bums, thighs, and back, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as the sign he passed said "Cobmoore Inn". Nice, fluffy bed, here I come!

There was a ruckus outside as Crowley unsaddled Cropper and brushed him down. It seems that a prisoner had died of infection due to an arrow wound he sustained. The rest of his group, stuck in the same cell as he was, yelled and banged at the walls until the head of the guard couldn't take it anymore and ordered the corpse to be taken out. This allowed the prisoners a slim chance of escaping, which of course they took. Now, the final man was being wrestled to the ground as a group of curious townspeople gathered around. Crowley only caught a glimpse of the man as he was lead back into the jailhouse. He frowned. Something was off about him. The bloodied shirt he wore was unseasonable to the comparatively milder winter of Araluen. It looked far more suitable for places such as Picta, but it couldn't have been. The coarse underbrush would've shredded the thick clothing.

…

Hibernia?

"Excuse me." Crowley shoved through the crowd of people still unwilling to leave just in case something more interesting comes up. He showed his oakleaf pendant to a guard and was admitted into the office of the prison master. The man's face was lined with wrinkles and he sported a graying beard that covered his double chin.

"Mister ranger," He said cautiously. The prison master was a simple man. He had to keep the prisoners where they belonged, and he got paid a decent wage for it. Of course he has the usual superstition of rangers at the back of his head as he offered the ranger a drink.

"No, I will be leaving in a few moments. Thank you, Mr. ?" Crowley refused water as he stood beside the door.

"Gavin, Mister ranger sir." Gavin stood behind his desk, pretty confident the ranger wouldn't practice any of the dark arts with his guards right outside. He was caught off guard by the youthful face of a man no older than his twenties or thirties. With his cheerful grin and easy manner, the Ranger seemed more like a man you would find flirting with ladies at a bar than an evil sorcerer.

Crowley nodded. "Mr. Gavin, then. I noticed you have a few… rowdy prisoners in here. Mind if I have a chat with them?"

"No, not at all." Gavin said. He motioned for the man standing outside. "Escort Ranger to cell twenty six, be careful."

The remaining ten men in cell twenty six crowded together. Due to prison overfilling, everyone had to share a cell with at least six men. It was rather convenient for the guards too, because every so often one would snap and kill the people in his cell. More room for others to space out.

They were busy in discussion when they heard the jingle of keys.

"Sir Ranger sir! I din do nothin, I swear!"

"Help, please! I was framed!"

"Lemme out! My kiddos are going to starve! I gotta… I gotta…"

Crowley tried to ignore the overpowering smell of rot and men who haven't washed, some for years, it seems. Eyes watering a little from the smell, he also drowned out the cries and deftly stepped out of reach of the inmates' desperate hands as they attempted to grab his cloak.

"Here you are, ranger." The guard said. Crowley nodded his thanks and proceeded to open the small flap that let him look inside the cell.

The men inside abruptly cut off their conversation.

"Hello. I am Ranger Crowley. I have a few things to ask you…" Crowley trailed off as the prisoners all shut their mouths resolutely. Okay then. This may take slightly longer than expected. Bye, soft comfy bed.


	20. Stay Awake

"Where the _blazes_ could they be?" Halt had given up pacing. He was now genuinely worried now, and since only the horses around, he spent no energy trying to hide it. Either something had happened, or he had been a fool for trusting O'Brien.

_It's a distinct possibility. But what if they get here when you go out looking for them?_

"There's only one real trail to follow. I would meet them halfway if that was the case."

_True. Perhaps they ran into some trouble. But what if you are walking into a trap?_ Abelard plodded over to his master.

"I'll be careful. Besides, I have you to keep me out of trouble." Halt gave Abelard a scratch behind the ears.

It was pure luck that Halt had found the tiny clearing in the woods. If Abelard hadn't picked up the dissipating smell of smoke, they would have passed the place completely. He touched a hand to Abelard's neck, signaling that he had seen two men. The small tent that they were guarding was much like the one the kidnapped girls were held in.

There was something wrong with this scene, however.

The flap of the empty tent was open, and two guards were slumped over each other. At first look it seemed like they had a little too much to drink, according to the empty bottles surrounding them. However, upon closer inspection, both men have huge bumps on the back of their heads, bruising into a nasty yellow and purple. It could've been because they hit their heads after falling to the ground, but that's highly unlikely due to the carpet of grass in the clearing. The campfire in the middle of the clearing had died a few hours ago, judging from the amount of firewood and the smouldering red circle, growing dimmer and dimmer.

Halt felt his heart seize up painfully. He dismounted Abelard and made the motion stay and guard. Lexa and Blaze, counting Halt as their second masters, also perked their ears up, alert. Halt himself slipped into the open tent. He felt his breath hitch and took some deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

Steeling himself from the overwhelming despair he felt, Halt commanded himself to remain logical. Ignoring the bloodstains on the small cots, his allowed his hopes to rise a slight bit as he inspected severed ropes laying on the floor. So. O'Brien had kept his promise.

_Either that or the leader Jenkins had killed them instead of the ransom the man had talked about._ The small voice in the back of his head said. No. He reasoned with himself. If that was the case, why knock out the guards? The small bit of hope grew a bit more. There was nothing more in the tent that he could really see, so Halt stepped back outside. He felt a shiver run up his spine as he felt his boot step on something that was not grass.

The toe of his boot was stained red.

The clearing was eerily silent; only the rush of the wind could be heard. The wind had been blowing from the south, carrying smells of the Outsiders camp. It was not very pleasant, mixed with the smoke and the stench of alcohol and blood. A sudden shift of direction brought a barrage of new scents, one of which sent Blaze into a panicked frenzy. Halt swallowed his unease and grabbed her reins, bringing her to a halt. The chestnut mare's eyes were wide and desperate and she was close to yanking Halt's arm out of its socket (Why did Gilan's horse have to be so tall?!).

"Eeeasy. Easy, Blaze." The ranger soothed. Inside he frowned. Blaze was one of the feistiest horses he knew, but this was extremely out of character. "What is it, girl?" She pawed at the ground, narrowly missing Halt's blood stained boot. She tossed her head and neighed, trembling from head to tail. She snorted. It was taking all her willpower not to run towards whatever she smelled. Halt noticed this; he swung back on top of Abelard. "Go."

Halt allowed the horses to follow Blaze as she blazed through the forest. The sounds of the forest were muted save for the drum of hoofbeats as they pounded away. Though it seemed a lot longer, fifty meters away, Blaze stopped by a seemingly random bush. Of course, Halt couldn't see anything due to the dark. He was only human, after all. He carefully unmounted and went to the spot where Blaze was gently nudging the bush. Or what seemed like one, until Blaze pushed off the branches on top to reveal a torn ranger's cloak. Halt fell to his knees.

"GILAN!"

* * *

Princess Caitlyn sat with her head resting on her palms, a position that she found herself increasingly assuming recently. Halt hadn't contacted her, updating her on Gilan and Clarke's conditions. He had left but yesterday, but this waiting, this uncertainty, this not knowing was excruciating.

Caitlyn frowned at the group of people buzzing around in the courtyard. Their royal standards fluttered in the wind as the gleaming knights stopped outside the doors of the great hall, declaring them as an Araluen ambassador party. The knights formed a tight knit circle around the carriage that presumably seated said ambassador.

"My lady! Lord Holland has demanded your immediate presence in the throne room!" A breathless Natalie burst through the doors of the princess's room.

"I was just coming down." She replied. Caitlyn noticed the slightly panicked look on Natalie's face. "Is something wrong?"

"I-I do not know, my lady. The Baron seemed mad, is all."

Caitlyn took a second to compose herself before strolling regally into the throne room. In Ferris's absence, Baron Holland had taken over control of the kingdom, but he was not allowed to sit on the throne. For once, Ferris's stupid rules were beneficial. Caitlyn sat down on her smaller throne, _above_ Baron Holland's seat. It was a petty thing to be happy about, but the annoyed look on the Baron's face made up for it.

The delegation party was announced as ambassador Pauline DuLacy of Araluen. Caitlyn sat up a little straighter in interest. Ferris had said they would be here around… more than a week ago. Ambassador DuLacy, a serious looking yet beautiful young lady, curtsied deeply at Caitlyn. "Your Highness. I apologize, we did not realize King Ferris was not present."

Baron Holland grunted in dissatisfaction at not being addressed and rose up, towering over the visitors like a vulture. "I, High Baron Holland of Clonmel, bid you welcome. What is it that you would require my lord's attention?"

The lady looked confused for a split second before masterfully covering it up as she answered. "I have been sent here by King Duncan to discuss matters of a cult that seems to be a problem in both of our countries. I have specific orders to speak only with King Ferris or another member of the royal family."

"As King Ferris is absent, I am the one…"

"Excuse him, Ambassador DuLacy. My _brother's_ absence is due to him personally leading an investigation on the religious cult you speak of. I am Princess Caitlyn Eveleen O'Carrick." Speaking of her brother as if he was actually doing something tasted sour in Caitlyn's mouth, but that's what he said he would do. If Caitlyn said anything otherwise, Baron Holland could seize his chance. She ignored the scathing glare Holland and his advisers. As princess, she was to take care of all ambassador business. How _dare_ they try and take over her duties? "You must be weary after such a long journey. I will have people get your party situated before we discuss this matter in privacy."

Baron Holland looked as if steam was going to sprout out of his ears any second now, but he gave the Araluen party a courteous if a bit forced smile. Caitlyn hid her grin behind a mask of professional dignity. She swept out of the throne room, beckoning the servants to get the east wing of guest suites ready for the visitors. Thoughts of the rangers were pushed to the back of her mind.

* * *

His heart pounding at inhuman speed, Halt slowly turned the prone body of his apprentice. Fearing the worse but not accepting it, the grizzled ranger pressed his ear to Gilan's chest, listening almost desperately for the beat of his apprentice's heart. He ignored the ominous red stains that all but soaked the shirt, creating a stiff fabric of dried blood.

Please. Not you. Not you too.

Gilan was not in a very good state of health. He was lanky at the best of times (picky eater, anyone?) But now he was like a skeleton. His torn sleeves revealed the extent of the heavy bruising on both arms, along with a slight swelling where his left wrist was a bit sprained, as if it had been twisted backwards a tad bit too far.

What have they done? How could I have allowed…

The boy's torso was not much better off. A long gash ran from his rib cage to nearly his waist, the cause of the huge bloodstain. The wound was slightly weeping from when Halt moved his tunic . No sign of infection in the shallow cut, thank whatever deity is up there. Gilan showed signs of bruised ribs along with the cut, the discolored flesh a sickening yellow-green.

As Halt felt for Gilan's pulse on his radial artery, he felt his own heart stop. Gilan was cold, freezing to the touch. His lips were blue and a little puffy, and his chest, oh gods his chest didn't seem to be moving.

What have I done?

Halt's hand brushed over the largest bleeding cut. _You._ _You will pay._ He swore internally. The ranger sat back, tears running down his cheek as he looked for a sign, any sign that Gilan was alive.

He didn't stop Blaze this time when she poked her head near Gilan, her big brown eyes also searching. She nudged him with her soft velvety nose, making a distressed nicker.

Halt turned away from Gilan, his forehead resting on Blaze's neck. "I'm sorry." he whispered. "I…"

A giggle. "Stop it, that tickles."

Reflecting back on it later, Halt was somehow not surprised those were Gilan's first words when he woke. Halt had scrambled up, nearly shoving Blaze out of the way as he looked at his apprentice.

Gilan's chest was still barely moving, his breathing too shallow to be carrying much air to his lungs. His eyes were closed, though his lips were now turned upwards.

"Gilan? Gilan. Don't be dead. Wake up." Halt knew shaking his apprentice wouldn't help. "Wake up!"

The boy barely stirred as he cracked open one eye, slightly unfocused. "Hm? Not very dead yet, Halt. Sleep now." He closed his eyes, continuing, "Why is it so cold, Halt?"

Halt felt his heart freeze a second time in the past few minutes. It was late autumn here, and even wrapped in his cloak Halt could feel the chill. Hypothermia. Slowed heart rate, slowed breathing, blue lips, pale face.

Gilan needed to get warm.

Halt inspected the wounds a second time, making sure Gilan wouldn't be hurt more if he was moved. Seeing none, Halt swiftly bandaged the cut on Gilan's stomach using his emergency med pack. Halt took of his cloak and gently wrapped Gilan in it, carrying him up into Abelard's saddle. "Stay awake, Gilan. Eyes on me."

"But I'm tired, Halt."

"No. Gilan, stay with me. Stay awake."

"Five minutes?" Gilan mumbled something else before his eyes started drooping. His head lolled against Halt's chest.

"But I'm tired...justa little nap… I'll muck out Blaze's stables in a few minutes..."

"Gilan, please. Stay with me. You can't sleep. Not yet. Wake up!"

The half hour it took for Abelard to safely carry Halt and Gilan back to the campsite felt like forever to the ranger. Blaze followed behind, nervously keeping an eye on her master. Gilan was laying with his head on Halt's shoulder. He was wrapped in his mentor's cloak, occasionally mumbling incoherently and nodding off.

As soon as Abelard stopped, Halt leapt into action, swiftly laying Gilan on the "bed" as he restarted the fire and grabbing a pot of water to boil. He took the pot of coffee and placed it on the fire to reheat. After making sure Gilan had not fallen asleep, Halt took out his field dressing kit along with the medicine he got from the local healer under O'Brien's instructions. Speaking of which, that lying backstabbing double crossing…

"This will hurt, Gilan." Halt muttered softly as he dabbed the wound with the now heated water, washing away most of the blood. The problem was with the encrusted shirt, now stuck on to his front. Gilan was frighteningly unresponsive as Halt carefully dribbled water down his front, working away the fabric bit by bit.

Halt made sure Gilan was seated close enough to the fire as he applied some warmweed salve onto his cuts, starting with the largest. Gilan visibly relaxed a bit more when the painkiller effects of the salve started working. "Can I sleep now, Halt?"

"Here. Drink this." Halt poured the warm coffee into a mug, scooped the last of his honey supply into the drink, and held it out to Gilan. He pulled it back as the boy's shaking hands were more than likely going to spill the precious hot liquid everywhere before he could actually drink. Symptom of hypothermia, no muscle coordination.

Halt made sure Gilan didn't choke as he slowly poured the coffee into his mouth. The color gradually returned to Gilan's face. The boy started shivering violently, gripping Halt's cloak closer as he scooted as close to the fire as he could without burning himself. He was moving out of shock.

Gilan's body temperature was still too low, and a sudden change in that temperature could be just as bad as freezing. Halt reluctantly moved Gilan a little further away, despite the apprentice's weak protests. Halt motioned for Blaze to come over, which the bay did immediately. As if she knew what Halt wanted, Blaze kneeled down, laying on her side. Halt positioned Gilan next to his horse.

"Niiiiiice horsie…" Gilan murmured.

Checking to make sure none of the bandages were having any issues, Halt stood up. He shivered slightly as he himself scooted next to the fire, wrapping his spare cloak from his saddle pack around his shoulders.

"Halt?" the ranger looked up startled when he heard Gilan. He must've dozed off…

"Halt, where's Clarke?"


	21. Father and Son

"Get him in here." The plump elderly lady ordered, swiftly gesturing to the bed behind her as she bustled about with bandages and painkilling salves. The town healer Ayana was in her sixties, her hands working swiftly with the precision she was renowned for. She had seen her fair share of breaks, scrapes, and burns, but even she couldn't resist a small gasp that escaped as she cut the filthy bandage around the prone figure's knee.

A small groan came from the boy as she carefully washed the wound. "Shh… I know it hurts…" She crooned gently.

"What's going on? What are you doing to him?" The healer glared at the boy's father (she inferred, based on their looks).

"I am cleaning the wound. Now if you could _please_ remove your hand from his shoulder, I need to have a look at that cut on his arm too." Ayana muttered cooly, all but pushing the man away from her young patient. The thin cut was a few days old, she noticed. It had scabbed over quite well, though the skin around it was a tad bit pale and discolored. Bruises? Blisters? She cleaned and bandaged it, just to be safe.

Ayana was most worried about the gash on the boy's knee. His father said he had fell over a large rock while hiking. The healer knew he was lying; she had seen bad cuts from rocks and this was not one of them. For one, there was no debris, and the bloody edges of the cut were ominously smooth. In all honesty, it looked more like a knife wound. _Why would a boy get hurt like this?_ She looked at the father, but he stubbornly didn't look at her, instead watching his son's every movement.

After bandaging the major cuts, Ayana started her usual check up, just in case of internal damage that she somehow missed (unlikely, but it does happen occasionally). The poor lad was covered in bruises and cuts, some of them worse than others. _What happened to you?_ She wondered. His shallow and fast breathing showed hints of perhaps a cracked rib, and his temperature is a bit higher than what she would deem safe.

"Is he going to be alright?" The father asked. His voice was a bit hoarse. Ayana patted him awkwardly on his shoulder, as she had to reach up slightly.

"I've done everything I can. Now, I diagnose _you_ with exhaustion. Go to bed, I'll keep my eye on him. Go now, shoo. Doctor's orders." the healer's tone bore no room for argument. He nodded reluctantly and stood up, walking into the next room over. Ayana leaned in his doorway. "You need me to get you a sleeping draught?" She asked kindly. He shook his head, though he kept looking at the wall as if he could see through it and watch his son. Ayana smiled. "He… What's his name again?"

"Clarke."

"Clarke will be fine. He seems like a strong boy. I'll wake you if anything happens, alright?" She prompted for his name.

"O'Bri… Sean. My name is Sean."

"Go to sleep, Sean."

Two hours later, Ayana gently knocked on O'Brien's door. With a small nod, she said, "He's awake."

Clarke hadn't moved since O'Brien was gone save now his eyes were more or less open. He became more awake as soon as O'Brien came in, but it wasn't clear if he was just waking up or trying to get away. O'Brien pulled a chair over.

"I gave him some herbs for the pain. It may make his reactions a little slower than normal," Ayana said. "I'll give you two some privacy." She closed the door behind her.

Father and son looked at each other. O'Brien noted that Clarke's face was flushed, like he was having a bad fever. There were traces of red spots on his pale cheeks. His hands were clenched on top of the white blanket Ayana had provided, though he looked too tired to do much.

"So, sleeping beauty finally awakens." Clarke tried to make a sarcastic smirk but only managed a half-smile.

O'Brien chuckled cautiously, "I could say the same for you."

Clarke took a moment to look at the room he was in. It was a clean and organized house with a series of beds lining the wall. The smell of medicine was a bit overpowering. His head spinning, Clarke looked back at O'Brien. "Care to explain what's going on?"

"Well, you were with the doctor…"

Clarke sighed, "No, before that. What happened? Why am I here? Why are _you_ here?"

"I brought you here. Because you were injured. I thought that much was obvious."

"You overestimate my ability to observe my surroundings while I'm unconscious."

O'Brien resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "Still kept that attitude of yours, I see."

"It's not like I can get rid of it, you know." Clarke shrugged. "Why can't I feel my leg below my knee?" He started to lift the blanket, fearing the worst. Had it been… amputated?

O'Brien quickly stopped him, making him lie back down. "Your leg is still there. The healer gave you something for the pain. You shouldn't be moving."

Clarke frowned, "Pain? I don't feel any pain…"

"Exactly."

Clarke conceded and relaxed again. For a second he could just imagine he was little again, before everything happened, when he still had a life here. He yawned, only slightly surprised by the small twinge of pain in his chest. "Dad?"

O'Brien hesitated. Did… did he say… "Mhm?" He cleared his throat, unsure his voice would actually work.

Clarke shook his head, "Nothing. Just to try it out." The word had felt weird on his tongue. To be fair, it's been seven years since he called anyone "dad"... "Actually…" Clarke looked up. "How's Gilan doing? When can I go see him?"

"You're not going to be able to see him… in this condition you're in." O'Brien quickly added the last part.

Clarke knew something was wrong even before he saw his dad's poorly hidden expression of guilt. "Did something happen?"

"I don't know." O'Brien could see the realization dawning on his son's expression. "He fell unconscious just as I came to get you two out of there. You were hurt and bleeding everywhere and I couldn't carry both of you at once, I'm so sorry, Clarke, I had to get you to a healer. I left him a bit away from the clearing. I haven't had time to check on him and…" He paused. "Oh gods above. He was conscious when I left him, I told him I would go back…"

It took Clarke a few moments to make sense of the stream of excuses his father gave him "You… you left my friend out _there_? In the _cold_? _Alone_? _HE COULD BE DEAD. Do you not even CARE?!_" His voice growing louder in hysteria, Clarke was yelling when Ayana rushed back in the room.

"What are you doing to my patient, young man? Out. Out now!" Ayana growled, looking much more threatening than previously thought possible. The door shut with a click behind O'Brien.

The man cursed quietly as he listened to Ayana calming Clarke, kicking a convenient table leg nearby. "I'll get him." He promised before going out the door.

* * *

Pauline walked with Caitlyn, remaining a respectful distance behind the princess as the two and their guards navigated their way to the courtyard, where Caitlyn liked to deal with official business. The crisp autumn air was decidedly pleasant compared to the roaring and frankly stuffy fires of the throne room. The two women sat down on a wooden carved bench, overlooking the hills and the village below. It took all of Pauline's training and experience not to fidget and just blurt out everything in her head, but it would be awkward if the Princess Caitlyn was not as open minded as she was. She didn't seem to be a daft figurehead, Pauline noticed. She also saw, with a slight note of surprise, the Princess looked exceedingly familiar…

"This is not the usual protocol, if my records in Araluen are up to date." Pauline said in a neutral tone.

Caitlyn bit her lip. It certainly was against protocol, and it gave Holland another reason on his list of _"reasons why Princess Caitlyn should be married off"_. But in the heat of the moment, it sure felt good to tweak his nose, however slightly. "It is." She agreed. "But the entire council of Barons was not usual either. My father had decreed it illegal after one of them tried to assassinate him, but the first thing Fer- King Ferris did after he ascended the throne was to reinstate them. Before they could have rallied the ones against his rule and cause havoc throughout the kingdom." _Which probably would have been the lesser of two evils_, Caitlyn thought dully. "On one hand, the barons caused no more trouble, but on the other, they have made Ferris into their royal puppet. What's worse is that he _thinks_ he's still in charge."

"Permission to speak freely, my lady?" Pauline asked. It screamed against every training protocol she went through as a courier apprentice, but this conversation promised answers, which she would do whatever it took to gain. The princess nodded. "It is not my place to ask, but is this why you… oppose them?" Pauline had seen the tension between the princess and barons. Putting the pieces together quickly, she realized that Princess Caitlyn could be her link to the truth.

"Oh, I don't _oppose_ them, not directly." Caitlyn looked around. There were spies everywhere, she knew. Sent by Holland himself, no place was ever completely safe, save maybe her suite. Ferris had kindly prohibited that, just in case any of the barons got… interested. It would do no good to him if he sent Caitlyn to marry if she was already… never mind. "If they knew their place, however, it would be much easier to bring this whole religious cult down."

"I've heard that they have been recruiting as many people as they possibly can, moving from village to village?" Pauline went over her mental notes. Crowley had been frustratingly vague in the note he sent, along with Halt's letters from the gathering onwards. Apparently he had also sent King Duncan a letter, to which Duncan sent Pauline here, to Clonmel, to figure things out.

Caitlyn nodded. "The Outsiders, they call themselves. They employed bandits to act as minions of the 'evil god' Balsennis, and then they force the bandits away, therefore 'proving' the divine power of the 'golden god' Alseiass."

Pauline's slight eyebrow raised as she nodded. "Interesting tactic. And quite effective too, I gather. I've heard that they are moving in towards Araluen. This has King Duncan very concerned."

Caitlyn brushed a stray strand of hair out of the way as she thought. Halt, Gilan, and Clarke were from Araluen. Perhaps Ambassador Pauline would know of them? Would it be safe to inform her of their plans? "We believe there is a solution to the Outsiders problem. All we require is time, and if possible, a small garrison of armed men. We have figured out that without the bandits, the Outsiders have no backup claim. The bandits are conveniently stationed at the edge of the Outsiders camp, our forces could overpower them, considering there are about fifty of them in total."

"How are you so familiar with the camp?" Pauline frowned. "Who is we?" She had a small inkling, but she had to make sure. Based on what Caitlyn had said earlier, Ferris was an unassuming puppet of self serving barons, which meant the investigation he was conducting is probably getting nowhere.

"I have received… inside information."

Pauline's hopes soared. Were Halt, Gilan, and Clarke here? Investigating the Outsiders? Were they alright? "Araluen sent some… men to have a look because we noticed the Outsiders were growing bolder as they kidnapped some girls."

"Excuse me?" Caitlyn froze. Araluen girls. Araluen men. Halt. Girls. "Do you happen to know the men sent here?"

Pauline hid a small smile. "Yes. Have they contacted you? How? Why?"

Well, here comes the awkward part.


	22. The Asset

Crowley waved a tired good morning to the pretty redhead in her twenties that served him his breakfast the following morning. Though he considered it to be neither good nor quite exactly morning yet, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and thick, sweet porridge quickly brought the cheerful commandant back to his usual self.

The usual crowd of men trickled slowly into the small inn, where they brought in the usual daily gossip of the town. The interior of the building soon rose to sweltering temperatures due to the sheer amount of bodies crammed in, regardless of the autumn chill outside. Crowley was glad he kept his cloak upstairs. Soon, too soon, people had to start sharing tables, which always caused tempers to rise. The little redhead waitress was forced to scamper around serving drinks as the hefty bartender settled disputes.

Hearing nothing of importance save for the amount of cattle they bought, the red-headed commandant stood up.

"Scary man, he is. With his big swagger an' bow. I don't like the looks of 'em." One man muttered behind his back. Crowley fought the urge to turn around. Was the man talking about him? But he wasn't wearing his cloak. And he didn't _swagger_.

"Official business, he said. Told me he had full authority of Ranger Mark. Nasty little bugger. That purple cloak makes him so high and mighty now, does it?"

With his face turned from the man, Crowley frowned. Purple cloak? Ranger Mark? He lowered himself to tighten his bootlaces.

"Yea, definitely a sorcerer, that man is. Anyone who associates with rangers is either crazy or evil, and that man don't look crazy to me."

Crowley winced as he pulled his laces to a painful degree. Right. Mark is the ranger of this fief. The commandant mentally berated himself for forgetting and stood back up. One can only tie laces for so long before people get suspicious. Why is Mark meeting with this purple cloaked man? Who is this man?

Guess _someone_ has to pay Mark a social visit now.

The small game trail the locals pointed out to Crowley was easy to follow. As Crowley reined Cropper in a few hundred meters from where Mark's cabin should be, he frowned. Something felt off, and Crowley learned a long time ago that this feeling was not one to be ignored. There was a thin trail of smoke coming from the chimney of the small oak cabin. The shutters were closed tight, even though rangers usually value fresh air over the chill outside. Maybe Mark has a cold?

A dull _thud_ _thud thud_ could be heard from the other side of the cabin. Spaced seconds apart, the archer was quick. Crowley hopped off Cropper and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hullo to the cabin!"

The sound of arrows smacking into wood stopped. There was a quiet swish of cloth as a man in black leather walked towards his, crossbow raised in warning. He was well muscled and bearded, his shoulders covered by a dull purple cloak. His black hair covered by a ridiculous looking feathered hat that in no way diminished his threatening look.

Crowley raised his hands, conscious of the gleaming crossbow bolt pointed at his chest. He sank to his knees at the gesture of the weapon, allowing the man to bound his hands and relieve him of his weapons.

"Who are you?" Crowley asked, receiving nothing but a glare in return. The purple cloaked man went inside the cabin. Crowley had no doubt the crossbow was still aimed at him, out of sight. He sighed in relief as Mark followed the man out.

"Found him spying…" The purple man said in a heavily accented voice.

Mark shook his head, "This is a _ranger_, Juacin." He bent down to untie Crowley. "Even better, this is our commandant, Crowley." Mark sheepishly helped Crowley up. "Sorry 'bout that. Juacin is a tad bit on the suspicious side."

The commandant rubbed his sore wrists. "Nice to meet you too."

Juacin grunted before whirling away to the other side of the cabin, out of sight. The _thud thud thud_ resumed.

Mark was a stout man, his mousy hair cut irregularly. It gave him a slightly messy look, an effortless charm that Crowley knew some women would deem "handsome". He gestured towards the cabin. "Come in! I have some coffee ready."

Crowley helped himself to a generous cup, sighing contently as he warmed his hands on the mug. "So why is Juacin here?" He asked.

Mark shrugged. "We were having some problems with bandits here. Juacin harbors no love of bandits; he said they killed his family. After an interesting introduction, he started helping me eradicate those bandits. He's quite handy with that crossbow of his."

The continuous _thud thud thudding_ ceased, presumably Juacin had ran out of arrows and was retrieving them. Crowley got up to open a window. "Gods, Mark. It's stuffy in here! Why keep your shutters shut?"

He stepped back in alarm as Mark jumped up and said, "Don't touch that!"

"Err, okay, okay. Is something wrong, Mark?"

"Nothing, nothing." Mark said. "It just took a long time to get Juacin to trust me. As I've said, he's a suspicious person. He values his personal space and time, which is why he doesn't like it when the windows are open. Something about how I might shoot him in the back when I'm in the kitchen or some kind of nonsense like that. Makes me sound like I spy on him or something."

Crowley nodded as he returned to his seat. Trust was a fragile thing. Silence enveloped the small cabin. "Well, I'm off." He said finally, draining the last drops of coffee and looking slightly wistfully at the pot. "I've been neglecting my duties as commandant and investigating something nearby. Just thought I'd step in and say hello." He grinned before walking out the door.

Mark breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted. He followed the commandant outside, waving goodbye to the figure before walking around the cabin. There, the Genovesan Juacin was leaned against a tree, glaring at a boy no older than fifteen. The boy's face was slick with perspiration as he picked up his longbow. He shook his black hair out of his eyes, intent on the target no larger than his palm more than twenty meters away. _Thud thud thud_. Grey arrows sailed into the air, two of them hitting the edge of the target while the last one fell slightly short, embedding itself into the tree trunk underneath.

"Poorly executed. Slow. Inaccurate. Again." Juacin said, giving the boy a sharp smack on the back of the head.

"Come, on. Try again. You know, Juacin, you can be a bit harsh on him sometimes. He's a boy, for crying out loud. Mistakes happen. Relax, we have time." Mark went over to the target and extracted the arrows. "Here you go. Your bow hand drops too quickly. Try and see the arrow through before you lower you bow, that may help a little. Build up the skill before the speed."

"You, señor, are too soft." Juacin replied. "Hurry, little Cuervo. Much work to be done. Continue."

_Thud thud thud._

Crowley still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. He went to Mark's cabin, the purple cloaked man Juacin has privacy issues, Mark's coffee is good. Still, something didn't feel quite right.

_Juacin is quite fast with that crossbow of his._ Cropper noted.

Crowley looked at his horse, "Yes, I suppose he is. Though with that powerful a crossbow It would take some time to reload. I wouldn't be surprised if he had multiple ones around."

_It's also very loud for a crossbow._

Frowning, the commandant looked at his horse. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

Cropper cast an innocent eye at his master before focusing back on the worn path. _I wouldn't know. I'm just a horse, not a mind reader._

Crowley rolled his eyes as he turned back towards Mark's cabin. No harm in checking something out. It's probably nothing anyways.

_Hmm, now where have I heard that before..._

"Not that incident again. Shush." Crowley mock pouted to his horse, receiving a flick of a ear in return.

As horse and rider dismounted, Crowley kept a good distance away. He motioned for Cropper to stay there. No use to have Juacin point that big crossbow at him again. With luck, no one would need to know Crowley was even there. (Hehe, think of how awkward that would be… Hey, Mark, just had this weird feeling that I can't disregard, so I came back to look around. You wouldn't happen to be hiding anything, would you?)

Mark had the generic ranger cabin, with the stables to the right of the main house. Crowley guessed Mark's horse would be in there, and it would most likely pick up the scent of him coming back. Other way, then. Crowley circled the cabin.

All of a sudden, a grey shafted arrow slams into the ground beside his feet!

His heart at his throat for an obvious reason, Crowley swiftly ducked behind the nearest tree. He waited for more arrows to come, but there were none. Why was he being shot at? Juacin? But Crowley was not close to the cabin, and he was certain no one knew he was there.

Crowley looked at the arrow, still wobbling with its point stuck deeply into the soil. It was a long bow arrow, not a crossbow bolt. Its grey shaft was lighter than ones most rangers use. The fletching was a bit rough; it was clear it had been used many times without repair, which might have saved Crowley from a painful wound.

"You imbécil! What do you not understand about AIMING!" Juacin's voice rang out, carried by the wind to Crowley's hiding spot.

The commandant shook his head. There was something stuck in his ear. He cocked his head to one side, hoping to hear more. Nothing. It was his sixth sense he had honed after years of being a ranger that had alerted him someone was coming.

There was barely any time for Crowley to react before a short figure in a mottled cloak stepped past him, separated by less than five meters and a tree trunk.

The boy was strong, with muscles fit for battleschool training. His soft boots scarcely made a sound as it stepped gently on the fallen leaves, which showed his talent considering his approximate weight. He had a twisted look on his otherwise handsome face. Crowley recognized this as a face of a person who liked to be in charge and was taking unpleasant orders from someone else.

Immediately after that thought, it took all of the redhead's willpower not to jump out from behind the bush and scream "WHAT? WHAT? HOW- WHY? EXPLAIN." to Russell's lost apprentice, Jared, who had been presumed dead for over two weeks now.

The ranger commandant had seen more than enough strange things in his lifetime. However, this has got to top the list. Crowley was still frozen behind the tree as Jared made his way closer. Not being one to believe in magic (being around Halt has that effect), Crowley's mind scrambled for some logical explanation.

Jared yanked his arrow from the ground using a little more force than necessary. He quietly muttered, "Why does this even matter?" while his back was turned to the two men. Crowley had shaken off his stupor enough to see that the apprentice looked very much alive and unharmed aside from a rather nasty bruise on his head.

Evidently, the Genovesan Juacin possessed exceptional hearing. "It matters to your mission, and to you yourself should you fail. An arrow to the arm and an arrow to the heart yields different results."

"This poison you coated on the end is throwing off my aim. Speaking of which, it's poisoned, won't they die either way?" Jared grumbled, shoving the arrow back into his quiver.

Mark nodded in agreement. "Right, but we don't want to take any chances. Besides, I'm sure all those other apprentices could have made that shot, with or without Halt's training."

Jared stiffened with resolve at the name Halt. "You're right. I'm better than those overprivileged prats."

"This mission depends on you, Jared. Just remember that. Crowley is depending on you." Mark smiled and motioned for Jared to continue. "Practice until you get it right, and we'll call it a day."

Crowley decided to move as both Mark's and Juacin's attention was on the very much alive Jared. Why is Jared here? How is he here? More importantly, why did Mark not tell Crowley when he said he had to…

Oh.

Mark was one of the people he sent to find Jared.

Well, he obviously found the boy, but why keep this a secret? Why bring him here? And what was it with the "Crowley is depending on you"? Crowley briefly debated whether or not to ask Mark nicely. But what of Juacin? What of Jared? Chances are nicely asking is not going to end well. He slipped closer (and away from the general vicinity of the target).

Mark and Juacin were muttering to themselves as Jared's arrows hissed through the air in a continuous _thud thud thud_. Straining his ears, Crowley could only pick up bits and pieces.

"That man that came, that was your comandante."

"Yeah. That was a close call. Too close, if you ask me. For once could you not point that crossbow of yours at every person that happens to be nearby? You cause enough commotion in the village as it is."

Juacin shrugged. "They are below me. There is no reason for me to treat them any differently."

"And what when they complain to Crowley?"

"Would you like me to take him out? He can't be that far away."

"No! Gods, no. The less Jared suspects, the better. We have to be ready when Rory and his group get here. At this rate we'll barely meet the deadline, much less get him to Clonmel in time."

Crowley was pretty certain his day couldn't get any more confusing than this. From what he gathered, Jared was under the impression that he was doing a special mission. Which was the first blatant lie, but Mark's calm explanations kept the boy satisfied. It seems the image of glory and recognition had taken most of his common sense from him. For some reason, being compared to Gilan and Clarke was a very effective motivator. Speaking of which, Crowley suddenly realized the recent revelations had caused him to deviate from his original goal of investigating the sudden influx of Outsiders along the coast. He had a gut feeling that this problem with Mark and Jared were deeply connected to the Outsiders, much more than the overheard conversation revealed. Jared was an instrumental part of their plan, but how?

One thing was certain to the commandant though. Mark was an Outsider, meaning he was a traitor to King Duncan. Which means Crowley had to do something about it. He was still hesitant because Mark had always seemed to be a good ranger. He was young and a bit withdrawn, sure, but he's a good man at heart. Right?

_You'll have to do it soon, before this gets worse._ Cropper bumped the ranger on the shoulder.

Crowley nodded tiredly. "You have a plan?"

_Apart from 'attack'? ...No, I'm just a simple horse, remember?_

"Very well, 'attack' it is." Crowley offered a weak grin.

_If it makes you feel any better, take out the purple cloaked man first and give Mark a chance to talk._

Crowley nodded solemnly and pulled his hood up, gliding from tree to tree as he readied his strikers. The blood was rushing in his ears; he had forgotten how heart stopping and uncertain things can get.

Mark and Juacin were in their usual positions beside a large tree, watching Jared practice. Crowley was thankful of the continuous _thrum thud_ that did well to cover his silent footsteps.

Juacin was a well trained man indeed. Crowley barely got to him before some sixth sense made the Genovesan turn around, just in time to see the brass strikers come swinging around to slam into his temple. He dropped to the ground like a stone.

Mark lept back, panicking as he reached for his bow… only to close his hands on thin air. Crowley smirked inwardly as he glanced at the bow he had taken and left with Cropper.

"RUN, JARED!" Mark yelled at the now frozen apprentice. He quickly backed away from Crowley. "Please, Crowley, I can explain. It's not what you think…"

"I'll decide what I think, thank you very much." Crowley said quietly. He watched Jared run off into the woods, knowing that he would have to go after Jared or stay with Mark. He chose the latter. "Why are you lying to Jared? Why is he here?"

Mark hesitated. "It's very complicated."

"Oh, don't worry about that, we have time." He took out his thumb cuffs. "Just in case though, may I?" Crowley could see the indecision playing across the younger ranger's face.

Mark sighed, removed his knives from the scabbard, and tossed them away gently.

"Thank you. Now, back to my first questions. Why did you take Jared from the Gathering?" Crowley firmly secured Mark and did a quick search for other weapons.

"You sent Jamison and I to look for him. I found him pretty quickly, he was in bad shape. I think he had a concussion and figured that the village would be closer than the Gathering ground. On our way there, we ran into Juacin. He said that he had my wife and children hostage and that I had to hand him Jared in return for their freedom. I had no choice! I tried following them, but then… his comrades caught me too. They sent me back to tell you I was leaving and then forced me to join them." Mark paused for breath.

Crowley held up a hand. "Woah, hold on. Last time I checked you were… not married? And kids?"

Mark looked away, "We were engaged a bit before the Gathering. I guess I didn't have the chance to tell you. And yes, children. We… adopted a little girl."

"Congratulations then." Crowley said carefully, aware that this was clearly false. Mark said 'children', now 'child'. "So you just handed a random man an injured apprentice and followed him? Not the best move, was it. I still don't understand though, you and him, Juacin… you looked like you were best of friends when I visited a few hours ago."

"Sorry about that. I guess I'm a better actor than I realized. And I'm surprised, Crowley, that you didn't notice his _knife_ behind..."

Suddenly Crowley sensed something was very, very wrong as he saw a flash of steel cut through the air! He barely had time to twist to the side before a deadly knife slashed the air where he was a few milliseconds ago. Mark gasped in pain as the momentum of the knife drew blood from his arm. Crowley was thankful of his training as he brought up his saxe, barely blocking a second attack from a furious Genovesan. He must've regained conscious and grabbed Mark's discarded knives… With no more time to organize his thoughts, Crowley tried his best to dodge and parry the lightning fast strikes. The two men locked blades, neither strong enough to push the other into their opponent. Crowley could see the malicious glint in the Genovesan's eyes, still slightly out of focus from the powerful punch Crowley had dealt him. Crowley felt a prickle of fear as he realized; if the Genovesan had shook off his stupor more, he would be dead right now. He could feel his arms slowly losing their strength, the shining knife approaching closer to his neck.

With a massive surge of panic, Crowley quickly relaxed his arm and ducked, using Juacin's forward force to propel him over his back. At the same time, the commandant brought his knife up and felt a sickening sense of it sliding into the man's exposed stomach. Juacin let out a gasp and rolled to the ground once again, eyes glazed over in pain. Crowley looked sadly as the Genovesan slowly relaxed into the growing pool of red.

Turning back around to face Mark, still tied to the tree, Crowley was surprised to see the man half slumped over, seemingly choking. "Mark?" He knelt beside the ranger. "What happened?"

"I'm dying, what else…" Mark gasped out. "Poisoned… knife. So sorry. Lied."

"Calm down, let me see… Mark, stay with me…" Crowley shook the limp man's shoulder slightly.

"Jared's… assassin. Dun Kilty."

"Mark?"


	23. On Time is Late

With Gilan safely warmed up and sleeping peacefully, Halt now had time to worry about what Gilan had asked. There had been no sight of Clarke at the clearing, and Lexa was still prancing around, sick with nervousness. Blaze was currently trying to comfort her friend, the two mares and Abelard huddled beside the tent Gilan was resting in.

Clarke is a very intelligent boy. Halt had observed the tall youth on his brief meetings with Crowley or whichever ranger Clarke stayed with. Though clever, he had problems talking to people, saying minimal words politely and preferring to nod or shake his head whenever possible. Around adults, that is.

Around other young people Clarke was as mischievous and as annoying as Gilan, if not more (a nearly impossible feat).

Thinking back, it made sense. Clarke was from Hibernia also. Adults would find his accent suspicious and ask questions, while children would think it was just interesting. It was barely noticeable when Halt first met him, but Halt had also spent years masking his own Hibernian burr. A conversation with Crowley confirmed the fact.

In the limited period of time that Halt knew Clarke, he had formed a surprising attachment to the apprentice. Brave to come with Gilan to help Halt himself, Clarke was often helpful (though his opinions on coffee were questionable).

Where could he have gone?

It is highly unlikely he was the one who pulled Gilan away from the clearing. He would also be injured, perhaps even worse than Gil was. Halt growled inaudibly at the treatment the boys received. Those bandits would pay. And what of O'Brien? It was obvious he cut the bonds tying the boys. Perhaps he had to go off because someone was coming? Why would he drag Gilan away from the clearing? What did O'Brien do with his lost/presumed dead son of six years?

What happened?

_Perhaps you could go back for another search? _Lexa's pleading eyes seemed to say.

Halt shook his head sadly. "I can't leave Gilan here alone for some wild goose chase. I don't have any idea where he could be, and I can't go off leaving him in this condition."

Lexa's head hung sadly as she plodded away. It hurt to see the normally cheerful little pony like this. Blaze headbutted Halt a little too hard. _If you even have a chance, you would take it._ She scolded. _What if you had found Clarke and Gilan was out there instead?_

"But _where_?" Taken aback by the ferocity in the mare's eyes, Halt's last word came in a quiet whisper as he clenched his fists in frustration. "And Gil can't stay here by himself…"

_You know full well you won't need me to go look. I'll stay and take care of my master. You go find Clarke and bring him home._

Knowing full well you can never win an argument with a horse unless they let you, Halt stood up. He was about to open his mouth to argue before a baleful glare from Abelard made him rethink. Great, now even his own horse was against his judgement. A hopeful look from Lexa pushed Halt into saddling Abelard, putting the bare minimum of supplies along with Gilan's field dressing kit, as Halt had already used up most of his own.

Checking on his apprentice one last time before leaving, Halt lifted the tent flap. He was startled to find the previously peacefully sleeping Gilan to be tossing and turning as if caught in a bad nightmare. Halt laid a gentle hand on Gilan's shoulder, and the boy calmed down slightly as his breathing evened. The ranger knew the amount of trust that took. Normally Gilan would bolt up if anyone so much as opens the tent; this just shows how much the young man associated Halt with safety. Feeling a rush of affection, Halt smiled (though of course he would deny that ever happened. Images are important to uphold). "I will get Clarke and bring him home. Blaze will be here watching over you. I'll be back by tomorrow morning. Stay safe until then."

Gilan stirred a little. "Huh? Wha-" Still bleary, the teen tried to get his bearings. All of a sudden, his eyes shot open. "Wait! Halt! I think O'Brien took…" Gilan's eyes rolled to the back of his head as he went back to sleep.

* * *

This was definitely the right place. Fifteen minutes of walking west from the camp, this large tree with its roots arching out of the ground made a small shelter in the ground. There was no possibility anyone would accidentally find this place, and it's unlikely Gilan woke up and wandered away. O'Brien had told the boy he would be back. Had Gilan been lucid enough to hear and remember the promise? Not having any real tracking skills, O'Brien couldn't decipher the faintly imprinted steps of soft boots and horse hooves in the fallen leaves. He stood up and brushed off his knees.

Behind him, another man slipped closer, fingering the feather fletching of his nocked arrow. Halt held up a hand to stop the two horses trailing behind him. He felt the burn of anger at the man blundering in front of him, fruitlessly searching for the missing apprentice. Stopping right behind a tree, the ranger restrained his emotions; losing his temper may not end well. For O'Brien.

"Where did you take him?" He asked quietly. The question sounded almost like an animalistic growl.

O'Brien let out a violent curse and lept up with a start, his eyes bulging with fright at the sight of the arrow aimed directly at his heart yet again. At this point blank range, he could see the broad arrow head glinting maliciously in the light, but even that wasn't nearly as terrifying as the steel cold eyes of the person holding the arrow back from its flight.

"Where did you take him?" Halt asked again, slowly circling as a predator would its prey.

"I left him here." O'Brien said rather helplessly. "He must've woken up and gone somewhere. I didn't hurt him, I swear on my life."

Halt paused. Was it true that he left Clarke along with Gilan here? "Why should I believe you?" He slowly loosened the tension on his bow, knowing full well he could draw and fire swiftly if the other man had any ideas. Getting no response, Halt then asked "Why did you leave them?"

"Them?" O'Brien frowned. "I only left Gilan here." That was evidently the wrong thing to say; Halt's eyes blazed with barely contained anger. O'Brien held up both hands in panic. "Clarke was severely injured and I had to get him to a healer as soon as I could. Gilan was in a better condition, but he couldn't run and would slow us down. I told him to stay here, and that I would come back. I don't know where he went."

"Gilan was _hypothermic_." Halt gritted his teeth. "He was near dead in this cold. He said you took Clarke and ran away. Where. Is. _Clarke_."

"The village infirmary! I didn't want him to… He was feverish and pale and I thought he was _dying_." O'Brien paused. "You found Gilan? How…"

Halt didn't respond to the question as he climbed on Abelard. "That's none of your concern anymore." He considered something for a moment before saying "Look. My offer still stands. You can gain safe haven in Araluen, with Clarke if he wishes. But do not think that I will forget this. I suggest you leave while my temper is in check."

As if to punctuate his master's point, Abelard snorted and started to canter away.

"I don't care about safe haven." O'Brien said. Halt reined in Abelard briefly, allowing the man to catch up. O'Brien looked up, "All I need is to know that Gilan is safe so I can go back to my son and put him at ease."

"And I with Clarke." Halt said quietly, resuming his ride to the village.

"Wait! Wait. Look, I know you have no reason to trust me. I understand. But as one father to another, I ask you to consider this. Clarke is in no condition to be moved. Once you see he's alive and safe, what then? Go back to Gilan? It's not very practical for you to go back and forth between the two. What if… what if we go get Gilan now, bring him to the infirmary? He'll be safer; not to mention warm. The two boys would also see that they're both alright."

As much as the ranger wanted to ignore every word that came out of this man, this _Outsider_'s mouth, he reluctantly agreed that this idea made sense. He had been prepared to just grab Clarke and go, leave this forsaken place after giving the signal to Caitlyn… Oh Gods, Caye. He had forgotten in worrying for his apprentices. And if O'Brien was being truthful about the condition Clarke was in…

_You should listen to him just this once._ Abelard turned to look at his master. _I can tell he's not lying about Clarke. If anything, his son is the only thing he cares about anymore._

Halt looked at his horse in surprise, unsure if the message he translated was what the little pony actually said. Abelard bobbed his head up and down.

"Very well, your way." Halt muttered. "However, I have some conditions. I will get Gilan to the village. You go ahead, go tell Clarke that Gilan is fine and alert the healer to prepare for another patient. However, before you do so, you have something else to do. Go to the northwest wall of Castle Dun Kilty, where the gardens are. There should be a balcony above the gardens. Get this note on the balcony if possible. If there are guards, leave the note on the inside of the wall." The ranger paused. "I will know if you did as I asked. Also, don't waste your time reading the contents of the note." He scribbled something down quickly on a scrap of parchment and folded it. "Get going."

O'Brien nodded and strode purposefully away as Halt, Abelard, and an unusually quiet Lexa returned the way they came.

* * *

Abelard's hooves clip clopped softly on the strangely empty cobblestone street. The windows of the buildings lining the street were all dark, as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. Shops were closed tight and even as he passed the inn there was no usual sign of bustling people or fragrant smoke pouring out of the chimney. Halt frowned and reined in his horse before the only window with a telltale light. Though he was grateful of the lack of people (and therefore attention) as he helped a protesting Gilan off of Abelard, he didn't like that the village seemed like a ghost town. The ranger scanned the road warily as he rapped his knuckles curtly on the wooden door. The figure outlined by the light inside quickly moved out of the way, but the door still did not open.

"Maybe we're at the wrong place?" Gilan asked quietly. Halt shook his head. He knew it was right, even if O'Brien hadn't given him a detailed description and there hadn't been a well worn sign outside that stated "Infirmary".

Halt knocked again.

There was a brief period of silence.

The door opened just a crack, the light from inside spilling onto the street. "Julius, for the _last_ time, I have _no_ interest in marching to the-"

Gilan suddenly let out an explosive sneeze. Not that it was normally particularly loud by any means, but in the empty street it echoed between the closely packed buildings. Both he and Halt flinched (though with Halt is was more like a small twitch).

The door opened wider, revealing a short old woman. Her annoyed face saw the two standing at her door and paled slightly. "Oh. He told me you would be here shortly. I just didn't assume after… nevermind that." She stepped out of the way and let them in.

Twelve pristine beds line the room in two rows. The scent of drying herbs was in the air, and the warm room was brightly lit by lamps and a nice fire. There was a short hall leading to private rooms to the left and a door in the back.

"Where is everyone?" Gilan asked as Ayana directed him on a bed. She frowned in concentration as she took his pulse, temperature, and checked over his bandaged cuts.

"You did a wonderful job cleaning the wounds, he should heal nicely in a few weeks." Ayana muttered distractedly. "The others went on a harebrained march. 'Terror plot against the king' they said. A bunch of riled up loons who don't understand much. This Tennyson fellow will be the end of us all." She looked up suddenly. "Oh, what am I saying; don't you mind an old woman's fanciful mutterings." She hastily amended.

"So I take you don't believe in the Golden God?" Halt asked carefully.

"Do you?" Ayana shot back. She shook her head "I'm sorry. You seem like reasonable people. I have been around long enough to know a few things. This 'Golden One' is just too… fake."

"So everyone is at the castle? Doing what?"

Ayana sighed. "No castle is impenetrable, I'm guessing the sheer amount of men will overwhelm the walls eventually. I almost feel bad for King Ferris. He's not been doing much good, but I had _some_ hope Princess Caitlyn could knock some sense into him before long."

"Knowing his thick skull, I would be surprised if that happened." Halt muttered to himself. Louder, he asked, "When will Gilan be fit to travel?"

"With a good rest I would estimate two days. However," She held up a hand. "No exertion of any kind for at least a week. Your wrist is a bit sprained, I'll rest easier after binding it. Here, why don't you two stay for the night, seeing as the inn is empty anyway. I'll keep an eye on you for any signs of fever…" She trailed off, suddenly a bit uneasy.

"We'll be no bother." Gilan quickly said, hopping off the bed.

"Nonsense, rest now." Ayana ordered kindly. "You'll need it to heal."

Gilan tried to protest but was cut short by an ill-timed (at least, in his perspective) yawn. "Come on, most of this trip I've been either knocked out or sleeping… Yes, Halt, I'll be quiet now. No need to glare. I didn't say anything. Nope." He quickly accepted the sleeping draught Ayana handed him. "By the way have you seen…" Sleeping drafts work fast.

Halt got up and turned towards the door. "Gilan will be alright staying here?" The ranger could hear the floorboards creak as the healer walked behind him out the door.

"Yes, he will." After too long a pause, Ayana said. "Sir, if you don't mind... Sean said you would be coming, and… I…"

"Where is he?" Halt asked quietly. He turned back towards the pale faced healer again. "I know this is the only infirmary in the area. Where did they go?"

Ayana hesitated and looked away,"How well did you know Sean's son?"


	24. Terror? Check Plot? Check

Pauline laid awake in her over-luxurious room, staring up at the green silken drapes. Well, that could've gone better. Dinner itself was nice considering the cooks had no time to prepare for their surprise arrival, but the atmosphere of the Great Hall ruined everyone's appetite. The Barons, especially Baron Holland, didn't even bother to hide the distaste at the active role their Princess played in discussions of the Outsiders. Pauline noted that despite the look of grandeur created by the gilded platters laden with delicacies, there was a sense of falseness, like this whole ordeal was an act to impress visitors. Baron Holland acted more like he was king and ordered everything around in a haughty voice, only to be contrasted to Princess Caitlyn's quiet requests and often snarky comments. Pauline respected the amount of self restraint the princess possessed; some of the comments were downright disrespectful.

The diplomat turned her mind onto the more pressing issue. According to Caitlyn, Halt had gone to get Gilan and Clarke from the camp after something happened and they stopped sending information. Pauline hoped the rangers were all safe and unharmed, though the circumstances are troubling. Caitlyn was waiting for a signal from Halt before she sends her men. They were going to take out the bandits, which in theory would render the Outsiders useless. Pauline hesitated to ask her entourage if they would help. Tensions between the tentative Araluen-Clonmel treaties had not been good since King Ferris inherited the throne. Though Caitlyn took measures to protect the Araluen diplomatic party, being accused of "betraying the good trust of Clonmel" is not something taken lightly.

* * *

The castle courtyard was designed in such a way that the entire population of the village could fit inside in event of emergency. The stone paved street was lined with small colorful stalls where merchants were selling their usual wares. The air continually smelled like pastries and the castle in its full splendor seemed like a large sentinel protecting its inhabitants. The great doors of the castle itself was made with magnificent detail, gilded and probably the most elegant part of the rather square castle. It was a pleasure to just watch the buzz of people doing their daily tasks, where they were living quietly and peacefully.

It was, however, nerve racking to listen to the continuous _boom, boom_ of a battering ram on the door, so powerful Pauline could feel the castle walls tremble ever so slightly. Suddenly, it stopped. They were in. She smoothed her dress nervously and tried to hide her fear as she slipped down the dark and quiet hallway. So maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to send _all_ of her guards away. If Halt was here he would probably have that infuriating eyebrow raised to the heavens. Pauline paused when she finally reached the relative safety of her room.

Locking the door firmly behind her, Pauline listened to the cries of servants and nobles alike as they were swarmed by a seemingly endless amounts of furious villagers. She could hear the pounding of feet and yells of men as they stormed into room after room along the corridor, probably searching for more people. Pauline shivered and worked her mind furiously. They had no qualms with Araluens. She may be able to talk her way out of…

"Here's another one! The ambassador!" A jingle of keys opened the door as Pauline froze. A young serving girl came in grinning, holding the master keys. The two men behind her also filed in.

"Grab her and take her away."

Unceremoniously shoved into the Great Hall, Pauline was herded to a growing group of people the villagers had found. She carefully glanced at the man standing on the raised platform in the front. He was a well dressed, elderly man with a calming demeanor and a full beard. He raised his arms as if receiving applause on a stage, smiling charmingly. "Welcome to the not-so-humble castle of your King Ferris, dear citizens." Pauline frowned in confusion until the villagers standing behind the group of captured prisoners cheered loudly. After the last of their echos faded, the man continued. "While you suffer in famine, your king indulges himself on feasts every day, on the fruits of your hard work. Not after this day. After this day, by Alseiass, you will never be oppressed again!" The volume of cheers rose to deafening levels. The man gestured for them to quiet down, which took a few minutes even with a few threatening glares from twenty or so well armed men scattered around the hall.

With a dramatic sweep of his hand, the man cried louder than before "Now, my friends, let your king reveal himself!"

Silence as the whole room waited on bated breath.

Suddenly, a low chuckle emitted from the center of the crowd. Pauline noticed people moving away to reveal Baron Holland, shaking his head with an almost mocking smile on his face. "King Ferris is not present, nor would you find him soon. He left days ago."

The man up front narrowed his eyes. "And who might you be, may I ask?" His tone was silky smooth, though the slight twitch of his jaw muscle betrayed his annoyance.

Baron Holland stood up straighter, head held high. "I am High Lord Baron Archimedes Phillius Holland, head of the council of elders as advisors to King Ferris, and I am in charge while my King is absent. I would implore you to withdraw from the castle immediately before the knights of Dun Kilty come. It would be unfortunate for anyone to be hurt on this fine day."

Pauline mentally cringed at his bluff. Does he not see that they were hostile to anyone claiming power, especially from authority of the king? Speaking of which, the Araluen quickly looked around for Caitlyn. Where was the princess? She felt a lump of dread in her throat.

The crowd shifted and murmured, trying to assess the look on their leader's smiling face.

"It's quite chilly outside, I think all of us would agree the Great Hall has more than enough room to shelter us until the king gets back." The man smiled at the mutterings of agreement. "Also," He looked around. "I don't see any knights. Did any of you see knights when we entered? No? Hm, funny. Must've ran off, eh?"

"Enough chatter, Tennyson. Is that what they call you?" Baron Holland said. "What do you want?"

Tennyson raised an eyebrow. "What do I… oh, aren't you typical, selfish, unenlightened human being. I don't want anything for myself, I work on behalf of the Golden One. His mission for me is to free these horribly mistreated people from your tyrannical rule." The crowd cheered.

"Well, you appeared to have succeeded. Which brings up the question of why you're still standing there talking. I will ask again. What do you want?" Baron Holland asked again.

Tennyson pondered over this for a second or so. "I think… I would just like to voice the general consensus here. Please remove… er, High Lord Baron Holland, from the hall please." He gestured to two of his bodyguards to come closer. To their ears only, Tennyson whispered, "Permanently."

* * *

"No, let me go back. I have a responsibility to my people! Let go this instant, Owyne!" Caitlyn snapped as her personal guard half dragged her out of the dank escape tunnel. She struggled fruitlessly against the iron grip he had on her arm.

Owyne grunted in annoyance as she tried to twist away yet again. "My Lady, you know my job is to keep you safe. You are doing your duty. What would Clonmel do without their princess?"

"My people need me now!" She got ready to turn back into the dark tunnel. "There are innocents in there! And the Araluens! What about them?! Owyne, let go of my arm."

"My Lady, I'm sure they have no interest in anyone but you and King Ferris. Which is all the more reason for me to escort you away. I have horses and men waiting nearby." Owyne sighed.

"No! I'm not going to run away like… like my brother! I am no coward! I will not let these… people to take us over just like that!"

"We are not running away, My Lady." Owyne said firmly. "This is a tactical response to protect the rulers of the country."

"Yeah, right." Caitlyn snorted. "At the time when the people need protection, what does it say when their leaders are busy running away to protect themselves?"

"What does it say when their leader gives their life uselessly while they could have a much greater impact after recuperating?" The guard countered. "Look, Caitlyn. You've got spirit and a sense of duty. I respect that. But you also have a tendency for rash decisions. Please stop struggling and let me help."

Caitlyn had to concede he had a point. As the captain of her personal guard since before she could remember, Owyne had always been there to stop her rash (though usually perfectly good) decisions. He pulled her out of the trapdoor and into the other side of the courtyard walls.

Caitlyn could hear the deafening cheers of people echoing through the castle as the grand doors of the castle swung open. A man - Caitlyn's breath hitched in her throat - was dragged out, followed by a flood of jeers and snarls along the way.

"Tennyson said to permanently remove him. Whad'do we do now?" One man was asking.

"Unhand me this instant! Do you know who I am? The king will have you thrown in the dungeons for this! Th-this… this is treason! Please! Help!" The prisoner struggled wildly against the two man towing him away from the castle.

For a scary second, the princess was indifferent. Gods know Baron Holland deserved to be dragged in the dirt sometimes. But then the severity of the situation came crashing back down around her and Caitlyn could feel Owyne's restraining gauntlet on her shoulder. He was shaking his head. "I'm going. Stay here and out of sight. You hear me, Caitlyn?"

"What are you…" Caitlyn watched as Owyne stepped out in the open and strode purposefully across the courtyard, his sword and armour glinting proudly in the sunlight. "And you're talking to _me_ about rash decisions?" She muttered.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Owyne called cheerfully. "Would you be so kind as to unhand Baron Holland?"

The two men looked at the guard in surprise. "Thought they 'ad all gone?" One of them muttered to another.

"Obviously not, are your eyes not working?" The other snapped back as they both backed away quickly.

Owyne held up a hand in peace, though his other hand never left the hilt of his sword. "Woah, calm down. I don't want trouble. Take that away from his neck please."

"Come one step closer and we'll gut 'im." The first man proved his point by not so gently prodding the terrified baron. "Yeah, tha's right. Now slowly remove your sword."

"Will you swear to return the baron if I do?"

"Yeah, yeah. Now kick the sword away. Farther."

Owyne complied. "Now hand him over."

"With pleasure. He's your problem now."

Caitlyn looked on in horror as one quick slash and a shove, Baron Holland's usually proud face turned to one of terror as he struggled to breath. Blood gushed on Owyne's uniform and onto the cobblestone path. The panicked guard caught the baron just before he fell. He desperately tried to stem the river of blood, but the neck wound was too much. Holland sputtered red specks as he took his last breaths.

"You savages!" Owyne growled. His hand fell to his… now empty scabbard.

"Uh uh." One man shook his head. "He's the monster there. A monstrous leech."

"Is that what your Tennyson told you?" A cold voice suddenly asked.

"Cait- Get away from here!" Owyne shouted.

"I asked you a question. Now I would like you to answer before I get impatient." Caitlyn's eyes blazed with cold fury as she held Owyne's discarded sword to one man's throat.

"Woah now, little girl. You shouldn't be here." He tried a suave grin.

"And neither should you." Caitlyn snarled. "I have no love for the baron. He is certainly greedy, and selfish. I would know. I have had the unpleasantness of being the same castle as him my whole life. He is sick with power, and you are suffering for it. For that, I am sorry." Her voice grew louder and louder. "However, I have _no tolerance_ for cold blooded murder of which you just committed. You just took away a man's life. For what? No one deserves that on their conscience, especially not for a man like Holland. Have you no remorse? Or are you blinded by pure hatred? Who gave you this anger? Is it Tennyson?"

By then, Caitlyn could be heard across the courtyard, into the still open front doors. Gasps of "_That's the princess!" _Traveled around quickly as people filed out to watch.

"Who is this Tennyson? A representative of Alseiass? Please, I ask you for more proof of the divinity of this 'Golden God' before I follow blindly like… like a herd of sheep!"

"Caitlyn." Owyne muttered in warning as the people came closer. He stood protectively beside her, taking his sword from her hands and kept an eye on the two men.

She brushed him away before turning to face the crowd. "Look, I know I'm as guilty as any of them. I know you have not been treated fairly." She gestured to Natalie, who had pushed her way through to the front. "Natalie, I'm sorry I haven't told you how much I appreciate you helping me every single day. I really am. But is this really the right way for change? A violent overthrow of power in an already shattered country? Brilliant! You've succeeded. Now what? I expect Tennyson would offer his services as leader?"

Nods and mutterings of _yes_.

"How do we know he's a man of his word? What do we have to trust except his faith? He preaches peace, yet his men kill!" She looked back to the body of Baron Holland. "I… I will continue to do my best to bring equality to this country. But violence is not the right way. This much I know." She hung her head, the adrenaline spike gone.

Suddenly, Natalie stepped forward. "Princess," She smiled. "You're a good person. Not like him. Of course I forgive you. You have given me more than I could've asked for, and I don't just mean my wage. Thank you for being my friend, and for stepping up against the Baron's unfairness for us."

Another man stepped up. "Aye. Princess Caitlyn had helped my shop get off the ground while King Ferris refused to have an audience with me because it was a 'trivial matter'. For this, I will be eternally grateful. She's right. If we want change, we need more people like her to help our voices be heard. Violence only brings temporary respite."

Suddenly, a group of men shouted "Where's Tennyson now? He can prove to you that Alseiass is real! With the lights! Do you not remember the glorious lights?" People turned around, some with disapproving glares but most with a sense of excitement as they want to see the two leaders fight it out.

There was no sign of Tennyson and his twenty or so men.

The Great Hall was empty.


	25. We Create Our Own Demons

"Not bad for a few weeks of this." A man weighed the small sack of clinking gold coins in the palm of his hand. The few men around him muttered "aye" in agreement as they packed up their various tents and personal items. The bandits hired by the Outsiders were at their camp, staying behind as most of the converted marched towards Castle Dun Kilty in a frenzy of anger.

"You reckon we should leave now, meet Jenkins on the way?"

"Nah, he said he would be back after Tenny and his group leave for Araluen. Besides, I don't fancy packing his stuff up for him."

"I dunno, he never said how long it would take for them to be done and leave. But if we're late to Araluen that's a quarter of our payment gone." The first man shrugged.

"If we leave him behind who knows what he'll do to us? He's been off his rockers since last week." Chuckles of agreement as the men relaxed in the cool shade.

"Oi, one of you go fetch Fendrel, his shift is near over and there's not a soul in these woods anyway."

The first man shrugged a _why not_; he was feeling restless anyway. He pocketed his payment of gold coins carefully and let out a small groan as he stretched.

The scout outpost they had thrown together was a short walk away, hidden strategically behind three towering trees. The rough shelter blended in well with its surroundings. It was virtually impossible to find unless one sees someone else enter or leave. This is why they came up with a system of "knock on wood" to alert the people inside. The bandit did so; he stooped and picked up a well sized rock, swiftly tapping it on a knot in a tree. Waiting impatiently, he tapped the pattern again. "You better not have fallen asleep in there again, Fen."

No response.

Suddenly, a prickly sense of unease filled him. It may have been due to the feeling of a sharp point digging into his spine, or more likely than not because of the multitude of men that were suddenly surrounding him. Based on their uniforms, they were palace guards and knights, though some dressed differently with another unidentifiable insignia.

"Well well well, found another one."

The bandit slowly raised his hands into the air while internally cursing himself for leaving his weapon at camp. A prod from the sword sent him kneeling on the ground. Rough hands bound his wrists and ankles as he was searched for weapons. "Go join the other one, you filthy bandit." One of the knights spat. The bandit was half dragged next to the hideout, where he could see an unconscious Fen also tied up.

"Is he dead?" The bandit asked quietly.

The captain of the guard looked up in surprise. "Him? No, we're not cold-blooded killers. Has a nasty bruise on his head though." He eyed the bandit thoughtfully. "I thought you were the immoral killers."

"Far from it, I've never killed once in my life." The bandit snorted.

"For some odd reason, I'm not sure I trust you." The guard rolled his eyes.

"Probably for the best."

"Captain! Stop gossiping and get your backside over here!" A knight called crossly.

As the guard jogged away, the bandit strained his ears for any snippets of information.

"Why didn't you gag him?" The knight hissed in the captain's ear.

"You said yourself, we need him to talk, don't we?" The captain shot back.

"Yes, but that was because one of _your_ men knocked the first one unconscious!"

"So you would agree that I should leave him ungagged for now."

The knight shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword. Unfortunately, this action was seen by the bandit, who was then rather quick to the inference that this uncoordinated group of soldiers and men only had the element of surprise in their favor.

Bandits, especially those like cornered rats, fight viciously.

Well, the bandit thought. Here goes their surprise. He twisted in the general direction of the camp, hoping that one of those lazy clods would hear him before he would likely be killed. He took a breath.

"SOLDIERS AMBUSH HELP HER-"

He was cut short by a flash of a blade.

"Somehow, I knew he was going to do that." The knight sighed as he wiped his sword on the grass. The soldiers raised their weapons as they were met by the armed and wary bandits.

* * *

Halt could feel a sense of dread building inside as he watched the healer's twisted expression. The cold feeling returned again, clamping back down on his heart, just as the ranger thought the worse had been over. His throat was as dry as paper. "How long had…" He managed to croak out quietly.

Ayana shook her head slightly. "Six hours. You missed him by six hours."

"And O'Bri… Sean?"

"He couldn't handle it. I… He left." The healer sat down on the bench next to the door miserably. "Too late… I was late."

Halt looked back at Gilan, who was curled up like a cat and snoring gently with a peaceful expression on his face. He thought of Crowley, who was waiting for them in Araluen. How would they react? A friend, an unofficial apprentice, a young boy. Gone?

"I'm sorry." Ayana whispered. "He didn't suffer."

"He wasn't even supposed to be here." Halt said softly. "But if he hadn't been... Gilan wouldn't be here." He bowed his head, though his face remained emotionless. "Where did Sean go?"

She gestured vaguely towards the tavern. "He went there. It's not open because of the riot, but who's there to stop him? Please, be careful." The healer added the last sentence as Halt walked purposefully away. "A grieving father is often unpredictable."

"I know."

"One more thing…" Ayana laid a hand on his arm. "What do I tell your son when he wakes up?"

The comment threw him off a little. Halt's response that Gilan wasn't his son died on his lips as he looked back once again. Shaking his head, he muttered "Don't tell him yet, please. I'll tell him myself later. Just say Clarke is… that he shouldn't be disturbed." Halt stepped out the door.

* * *

The dark tavern door eased open quietly. Faint light spilled in as the figure silhouetted walked in. The smell of spilled alcohol was present, though with only two people in the room it doesn't seem as pungent as normal.

"Haven't you heard of knocking?" A hoarse voice asked. The sound of him swallowing seemed to echo in the empty tavern.

Halt waited as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the room. "I've heard breaking and entering was illegal, not to mention stealing." He saw the man's shoulders shrug.

"It's not if no one finds out." The words were slightly slurred, indicating the amount of drink that had already been consumed.

Halt felt a brief flash of anger at the frankly pitiful scene in front of him.

Sean O'Brien was seated at a table in the corner, drinking from a large mug liberated from the counter. His red rimmed eyes squinted at the light coming from outside as he poured himself another drink. He sniffed and turned away, slouching in the chair.

"That is enough." Halt said quietly.

O'Brien said nothing, instead taking another long draft.

The ranger's soft footsteps caused the floorboards to creak as he crossed to the table and sat down carefully. "Sean."

"Oh what, you almighty meddling spy." O'Brien snapped, "Cannta man get a drink in peace?"

"I think you've had more than just a drink by now." Halt muttered. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I thought you were intelligent." The man snorted. "I'm tryin to forget everything that 'appened the past few days."

Halt paused, pondering on how to proceed. "Forget about… what about-"

"Don't you even _mention him_." O'Brien's eyes blazed with sudden anger. "Yes, forget 'bout him. Especially him. If not for him, I'd be enjoying a drink with a nice sack of gold coins in my pocket with not a care in the world. If not for 'im I… I…"

"You would be with the Outsiders, or fighting the soldiers sent to ambush your camp." Halt replied with a hint of steel in his voice. "If not for _Clarke_ and Gilan, you would still be under their command, a loyal lapdog doing their dirty work for a small payment. You would be living this repetitive life of lies and drinking your earnings and troubles away. Like you always do."

The table shook as a fist slammed on its surface. "_Do you not think I know?_" O'Brien yelled. "That life would still have been much better than _this_! To have a chance of life and redemption with a son for _four_ days and be the reason he's now _dead!_" The amber liquid in the tankard spilled out, but the man didn't seem to care. Rather, he looked as if he would like to throw the tankard at Halt's head. "NO parent should have to bury their own child. You _don't know_ how I feel; why I want to forget. I wish you lot had _never _come here_. _This is YOUR _fault_!" He stood, fists clenched.

The ranger shot up with his saxe drawn instinctively as the other man advanced. "I don't know?" Halt asked, his voice dangerously low. "Do you not think I cared for him also? I knew him longer than you had. He was as good a friend to me as he was to Gilan. _You think I wouldn't have tried to prevent this if I had known?_" He continued slowly backing towards the door, checking the window to see that Abelard was standing outside.

"It's different. He's not your SON." O'Brien roared. He charged towards the slim figure, who had one hand on the doorknob.

As quick as lightning, Halt sidestepped and stuck out a foot, effectively tripping O'Brien. An iron grip tightened on the back of the man's tunic as Halt used O'Brien's momentum to heaved him out the door.

Head first into the conveniently waiting water trough.

O'Brien came up sputtering, clawing at the hand still holding his collar. "What was that for?!"

"Hopefully that knocked some sense back into you." Halt growled. "You are a coward. This is how you prove you loved him? I can see why he left." He spat, not caring for O'Brien's cringe.

"I can't change the past." O'Brien muttered.

"No," Halt agreed, "You can't." He removed his hand and allowed the other man to sit back.

A strange choking sound emitted from the still form. Halt realized with a start that O'Brien was laughing. Tears leaked out of the man's eyes, mingling with the water still streaming from his wet hair.

After a few more wheezes, he looked up. "It's funny, isn't it, how it all crashes and burns around you? It's all there for a second, and then it's gone, like smoke." O'Brien buried his face in his hands. "The worst part is, it's all your fault in the end. No matter what you do. We create our own demons, and they burn our whole world down." He looked up at the grim ranger still standing beside him. "How do you get rid of them?"


	26. A Month of This Madness?

Crowley frowned to himself as Cropper cantered down the empty dirt road. It had been three long weeks since the Gathering ended and this entire mess began. He briefly wondered if Halt, Gilan, and Clarke would be back by now. Communications were less than ideal; he hadn't gotten any contact save the short letter explaining the situation with Outsiders in Araluen.

_You're thinking. _Cropper commented, breaking the companionable silence.

"What?" Crowley asked.

_You're rubbing your necklace again._

"I am not…" He self-consciously removed his hand from the pendant. "Fine. Yes, I've been thinking. Jare- no, Juacin isn't going to come back on his own, is he? Have to find him before they get out of the country."

_Anything so far?_

"Nothing good." Crowley muttered in annoyance.

_If they are leaving for Clonmel like they said, where would they most likely go?_

"Barmouth is closest. Why do you think we're going in that direction anyway?" The commandant snapped crossly.

_Just trying to help._ Cropper rumbled. _You are worried, I can tell._

"Of course I am! My best friend _and_ Clarke _and_ Gilan have been gone for _weeks_, and based on what Pauline wrote about situations in Clonmel, _nothing is getting better_. That place is a _disaster_ waiting to happen, and I'm willing to bet Jared will be the person to set it off."

_Why do you think they wanted Jared?_

"I'm not sure!" Crowley let out a small groan. "All there is to go on is what Mark said before he…"

_That Jared will be sent to Dun Kilty? Perhaps after the royal family?_

Crowley eyed his horse in surprise. Either the animal has amazing hearing or can read minds because Crowley was pretty sure he hadn't mentioned anything. He nodded slowly, "It would completely throw the place into chaos, especially since there's no heir that I've heard of. But why couldn't they do it themselves? Unless…" His eyes widened. "If Jared kills the royal family, the blame could be shifted on us the corps. And _if_ their next target is here..."

_Always glad to be of assistance._

* * *

**Metal clashing on metal was a foreign sound ringing continuously through the forest as the grass carpet of the camp was watered in red. The young captain of Pauline's entourage pulled back for a rest after he finished off a bandit. Chest heaving, he grimaced at the sharp sting of a most likely broken rib. His ears still buzzed with blood. The dead eyes of the fallen bandit continued to stare at him.**

The captain stood back, leaning on his sword for temporary support. He surveyed the small barren clearing. Everything seemed oddly fuzzy and unfocused.

Rather than being attacked at the relatively concentrated camp, the bandits were now spread through the clearing. Both sides were about even in manpower and skills. The guards and knights, of course, had the advantage of armour. Which _also_ meant that they had the disadvantages of armour. It was difficult to tell if any side had the upper hand in this situation.

"Men! To me! To- _argh_!" A cloud of smouldering embers momentarily blinded the loud knight as his opponent kicked the dying campfire. He stumbled backwards, flinging out his arms for desperate balance. The bandit smirked and followed up with a rather ungraceful overhand cut with his vicious looking dagger. This, in theory, would have effectively silenced the knight.

Fortunately for the fallen man, the captain leapt forward just in time to parry the blow. Thrown off by the sudden resistance, the crazed bandit backed off and turned towards the captain, a furious gleam in his eye. His dagger swished as he twirled it expertly, still watching as the captain shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword. The two circled each other warily.

Suddenly, the bandit's eyes widened slightly. He gave a small gasp, and fell forward.

It was all the captain could do to stand and stare at the black shafted arrow embedded in the back of his former opponent.

* * *

Waking up in a dark and foreign place causes at least some degree of confusion even at the best of times. The throbbing in his head didn't make anything better as Gilan pushed himself to a somewhat sitting position. He waited for the dizziness to pass before looking around for the healer, Ayana. The empty hall was eerily quiet.

"Hello?" He tried, pausing at how hoarse his voice was. This alerted him to another extremely important point. He was really, extremely thirsty.

Without warning, a muffled snore interrupted the silence. Gilan eased off the bed and made his way over to the closed door that was presumably Ayana's bedroom. Walking proved to be a bit difficult as he felt his knees give out slightly, making the short thirty pace journey take way too much time.

He was about to knock when the door opened, revealing Ayana looking tired but concerned.

"What are you doing up? You need to rest before you end up…" She hesitated before continuing, "End up getting an infection. Or worse." She gently ushered him back before handing him a cup of water. "Drink up, go back to sleep."

"Where's Halt? And Clarke?" Gilan asked as he made himself sip slowly, mindful of what Halt had told him what seemed like a lifetime ago. His brow furrowed when he noted the healer's slight flinch. "What happened? Are they alright?"

"I… erm… he… your friend's father was not in his right mind, so Halt went to have a talk with him." Ayana mentally berated herself for the awkward phrasing. "Last I saw they were in the tavern across the street, but the little gray horse is gone, so I'm assuming they left for someplace."

Gilan knew Halt wouldn't just leave him here for no reason, especially not without leaving a note saying where he's gone. Of course, that was the way they operated back in Araluen. Who knows, do these rules change in another country? It was such a strange feeling, being in another country. Gilan reflected that he hadn't been home in… what was it? A month? More? He missed his parents dearly, and of course MacNeil will have a fit over him missing so many lessons. And what of Blaze? The poor mare must be hanging around in the stables with Lexa. Has anyone taken care of them? _Well, of course Halt would._ Gilan reminded himself. _But where was Halt now? What did Miss Ayana mean, O'Brien wasn't in his right mind? Why? Does it have anything to do with Clarke?_

_Why isn't he here too?_

Ayana cleared her throat, pulling Gilan out of his thoughts. "If it's any help, Sean- I mean, O'Brien, was saying something about someone named 'Jenkins' when he left." She didn't bother to mention that Sean left screaming that name like a curse and a whole lot of unpleasant phrases to go along with it.

Gilan sucked in a breath at the name. Or perhaps it was just a reaction as Ayana looked over his bandages and wrapped wrist, which stung a bit even under her light touch. Trying to ignore the pain, Gilan decided to focus on the information he just received.

Jenkins was that leader of the group of bandits, Gilan knew. He was also ruthless and not to mention probably insane by the looks of it. Most importantly, he was still out there somewhere.

* * *

Said bandit leader was currently crouched uncomfortably by Tennyson's encampment, commanded to keep watch as the others planned their next step. He knew something had gone wrong. The rumored "asset" had not arrived according to schedule, which threw the entire carefully orchestrated plan off. He scoffed to himself. _Well planned indeed_, Jenkins mentally sneered at Tennyson. Not that it had too much to deal with him or his men; they were just here for their payment. Not their fault the plan had gone off track. The blame obviously fell on the men in Araluen, who were in charge of delivering the Asset. _Probably not my brother._ Jenkins mused. _He's too forgetful to be placed in charge of such an important mission._ The Asset was the key, and Jenkins almost pitied the men in charge of him. If they were still alive, that is.

His thoughts turned towards his men. They were instructed to be ready when he gets back with their payment, and the ones who wanted more follow Tennyson and his men to Araluen. Of course, why any of them would be idiotic enough to follow the lunatic was beyond him. He paused. That included himself, he conceded.

His replacement came, as per usual, half an hour late. Jenkins glared but kept his tongue in check as he made his way into the slightly warmer interior of the command tent, mind set on getting the payment and as far away from these people as possible.

Tennyson looked up with a twisted expression of annoyance. "If I remember correctly, I was _not to be disturbed_." He stated. He was bent over a map with his son and a group of advisors, none of whom were familiar to Jenkins.

Jenkins tilted his head slightly. "This will take but a moment of your precious time. I have come to retrieve my men's payment for our services." He heard a slight growl come from one of the men beside Tennyson, but resisted the urge to move his hand to his scabbard.

The leader of the Outsiders appeared to be in thought. He pointed to one of his advisers, "You, get this _bandit's_ payment." He spat the word like a curse.

The two men wove their way through the small campsite packed with supplies to Tennyson's personal tent, where Tennyson's man removed a bag and carpet to reveal a wooden chest buried till only the lid was accessible. Inside was a gleaming hoard of shining coins, tokens, and ornaments of high value. Jenkins gaped. Tennyson's man filled a small sack with the gold and handed it to the bandit leader. "Go back to your rat's nest." Jenkins heard the man sneer, but he ignored the jab and, tucking the payment in his breast pocket, immediately left for his men's camp.

Nearing the safety of the camp, Jenkins occasionally glanced around for any sign of people following him. That's what he would've done, he reasoned; give the money then kill the man later. But, sensing none, he returned to the direction of the camp, where he could faintly make out the smoke of a campfire fluttering through the treetops.

Immediately, he knew something was off.


	27. Death With No Defendants

Jenkins was only able to jerk his sword out of its scabbard before something smashed into his elbow from behind, jarring his nerves and deadening his arm. His sword fell to the ground, useless. Jenkins cursed and rolled to his feet just in time to avoid another blow from a club. His attacker glared at him through slitted eyes, more cautious now that he had recovered from the initial blow. Knights. How wonderful.

He squinted at the light reflecting off the polished armour, trying to shake some feeling back into his sword arm as he awkwardly fumbled the sword with his right. The soldier in front of him grinned, pulling the club back for a final blow on the injured bandit leader. That is, until the grin melted into a general look of confusion after Jenkins ducked behind and slammed the hilt of his sword into the knight's skull.

Being ambidextrous can be quite convenient at times.

Jenkins approached his camp cautiously. Now that he was more aware that there was more happening in the clearing than just his fellow bandits wasting their time, the sounds of clashing swords seemed deafening. The edge of the clearing was mere meters away, but Jenkins circled the camp in case that scouts, like the one he had just killed, were still in the area. During this time, he noticed with growing unease the dwindling sounds of swords were replaced with cries of pain. He caught glimpses of a tall figure, a sword in each hand, whirling around the battlefield with ease. Man after man fell under the blows of the blades; the figure seemed invincible. And, unfortunately, very familiar.

Sean O'Brien was a force to be reckoned with while he was fighting. The world seemed a blur of red and more red as his sword danced with a mind of its own. The minor wounds he sustained didn't feel like anything at all. There seemed like an aura of death around him, especially with the bodies of the ones he's taken down littering the ground around him. His reddened eyes reflected the stained ground, like he had gone into what Skandians would call "berserker" mode. It was terrifying to watch him in action as the remaining bandits circled warily, unwilling to sacrifice themselves first. Even the remaining knights and guards were unwilling to step in and help for fear of being injured themselves.

Halt couldn't help but be impressed at how Sean was fighting. While drunk, no less. It had been quite the chore actually getting him to the camp, but once he had a target there was no stopping him from getting his revenge. Halt calmly readied another arrow for a bandit who stepped to strike Sean from behind. The man never had a chance before he collapsed with a strangled cry with two arrows to his leg. Halt readied another shot.

All of a sudden, two bandits broke away from the group. They seemed to have picked up Halt's location from behind the trees and decided that attacking him was less of a death wish than fighting the berserker traitor. Time to prove then wrong. Halt aimed his last arrow at one of the men, armed with an ax.

Within the space of a millisecond, the arrow on its way to the axman's heart was deflected. Halt recoiled in surprise. The other bandit, armed with a sword and shield, had lightning fast reflexes. The arrow clattered uselessly on the ground behind the two.

Crap.

The ranger pulled out his saxe and throwing knife, suddenly acutely aware of the lack of Gilan's presence by his side. And Gilan's sword. That would be helpful right about now.

* * *

The more bandits killed by O'Brien, the less money he'll have to share with the survivors. Jenkins followed this line of reasoning as he watched his "friends" attack the traitor. Two of them moved away from the fight and towards the side of the clearing; Jenkins frowned as he watched them advance on a tree. The pair stopped fifteen meters away as a flash shot out from behind the tree, only to be deflected by the one with a shield. _Must be the ranger_. Jenkins mused. A ranger named Abelard, or so O'Brien had told him in his report of the interrogation. Of course, there was every chance the traitor had lied about that piece of information as well, but that is of no importance right now. Jenkins was relatively certain the archer would be easily taken care of by the axman. He was however glad for distraction offered by the two men, since it frees up a time where O'Brien would have to watch out for his own back. With the right timing and any sort of luck, no opponent was infallible forever. Especially since O'Brien had finished off the last of the bandits near him and had his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

Jenkins wore a grim smile of satisfaction as he approached the former bandit from behind_. _The cover of invincibility had left O'Brien, leaving a tired, bloodied man in its wake. Jenkins raised his sword over his head, victory already playing out in his mind…

"BEHIND YOU!"

Sean O'Brien turned around in time for the sword, aimed at the back of his head, to instead sink deep into his unprotected left side. His knees suddenly gave out. His face was half planted in the ground now. Grass was tickling his nose. Why did everything seem red?

He suddenly felt himself being roughly turned onto his back. The extra pain had brought tears in his eyes. The hostile gaze of Jenkins stared into his own as the blade bore down, positioned precisely between his ribs. He felt himself jerk once again, though he couldn't really feel anything anymore. It was all just a constant feeling of burning pain everywhere.

"NO!"

_Who was that? _Sean wondered. It was a young voice. Like Clarke's. Was Clarke here? Sean stared up at the sky, vaguely registering Jenkins collapsing beside him. An arrowhead stuck out of the bandit leader's throat, another three sticking out of his torso. _Well, guess I get to keep your sword now,_ Sean mused at the sword hilt just at the bottom his peripheral vision.

A dark mass suddenly obstructed his view of the clouds. "Hang in there. Halt's on his way. Hold on." The voice muttered over and over again. The boy seemed at a loss as to what to do.

Gilan saw with horrific clarity the moment O'Brien was struck down from behind. It kept repeating itself over and over in his mind's eye, from the second he called out the warning to the way Jenkins had rolled O'Brien over for the second strike. Everything. The worst part was how he felt nothing but pure fury after the bandit leader stood over the mortally wounded man with undisguised victory, how his bow and arrow seemed to fly into his hands, and forgetting his injuries in the heat of the moment, Gilan Davidson had purposely fired a killing shot.

"Hold on, don't die yet." Gilan said quietly. He knelt beside O'Brien, unsure what to do. Removing the sword would mean less suffering for the man, and yet… "Clarke still needs you, remember? Don't leave yet."

O'Brien shifted his wandering gaze to focus on the young apprentice. With a voice of almost incredulous wonder, he whispered, "I'm going to go see my son again."

"That's right. You are."

Silence.

"You are! Don't go yet!" Gilan watched the last breath leave the former adversary. He sat there numbly. O'Brien didn't look dead, not really. Gilan had anticipated there would be some injury and possible death as part of being a ranger, but it seemed wrong, the image in front of him. O'Brien could have been peacefully sleeping for all he knew, except with a sword in his chest and a growing pool of blood surrounding him.

Wrong, all wrong.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Halt. He couldn't tear his gaze from the body to face his mentor. A few minutes after Jenkins arrived, that's when Blaze had found the clearing. Those few crucial minutes for which Gilan was too late, for which he had caused his friend to lose the final member of his family.

"Gil." Halt's voice was laced with a concern that doesn't reveal itself too often. "You're still hurt."

Oh, really. Gilan hadn't noticed when his long torso wound had opened back up; it was probably from drawing his bow. He shook his head but remained quiet.

"It's getting late." Halt eventually said after a long period of silence. The knights and soldiers around had finished piling the remaining bodies in the clearing and had left with their own casualties at Halt's incessant glare whenever they approached O'Brien. "We should bury him before it gets dark."

Gilan accepted the small shovel Halt offered with a sense of finality. O'Brien was, indeed, dead. The rectangular mound of earth was indicated by a headstone in which Halt carved with his saxe. _A Father and a Good Man._

"Clarke should've been here too." Gilan said suddenly. His friend, whom he hasn't seen for three days now. He saw Halt stand still for a moment.

"Yes." was the terse reply. Halt resumed retrieving his arrows.

"He's gone. Isn't he, Halt? That's what O'Brien meant by seeing Clarke again. They're both gone."


End file.
